Tag Archives: past memories

No Regrets

Posted on by
1

            When my mother slipped into the depths of dementia to never return to her former self, I didn’t cry. In fact, I struggled to control my glee, to hold it inside whenever I spoke to my siblings or was around my dad.

            Finally, after years and years of manipulation and emotional abuse, her voice was silent, her disapproving glare gone. Never again would I hear all the ways in which I had disappointed her, how I was not the daughter she wanted. How she never cried when I left for college or when I got my first apartment, never moving back into her house.

            I’d never be chastised for not cleaning my brother’s room, for not wiping down each leaf of every houseplant, for not standing by her side and learning how to cook. For not dressing in the girlie clothes she’d sewn for me. For looking and acting like a boy. For being uppity because I loved learning, reading books. Real books, not the household tips magazines she skimmed through and kept piled up next to her chair.

            She’d never be able to guilt me into calling, having her over for dinner, for taking her “shopping” which was really an excuse to pawn through discount racks while she lectured me about my faults.

            I didn’t cry at her funeral Mass. A friend, sitting near me, commented about that. I shrugged. How do you explain how wonderful it felt to have the black clouds not just lifted, but blown away? How do you tell someone how freeing it is to no longer have to listen to her tales of woe, of all the injustices done to her over the years, of course, by me. Not by my siblings.

            Never by them, for they were perfect and I was not.

            When the Mass ended, my sister yelled at me, accusing me, in front of the few who were in attendance of never loving our mother. I walked away.

            There was a time when I wanted to love my mother, when I yearned to feel her arms around me. A hug. A nice, warm hug to greet me in the morning and to put me to sleep at night.

            My sister knew that love. So did my brother.

            That’s why they cried.

            While my mother was disappearing, my father became a kinder man. He smiled more. Laughed more. Was easier to be around.

            One day as I was leaving after visiting my mother’s body, lying in a hospital bed in their front room, my dad opened his arms wide. I froze, not knowing whether it was some sort of trick.

            I couldn’t tell by his face what his intentions were. Was it a real invitation for a hug? Was it a trap? Since I became a teen and my body changed, he’d looked at me with what I later learned was lust.

            He’d touch me, inappropriately, when I got near. I’d learned to sidestep, to take roundabout ways, to hide in my room until he was somewhere, anywhere else.

            It creeped me out. And it only got worse after I married. By then he knew I had become a sexual being. His looks became more suggestive, his comments more lewd.

            So, when I didn’t want his hug, he asked why. I couldn’t say the words. My feet felt glued to the floor, my brain stopped functioning and my heart thumped so loudly I thought I was going to drop dead right there.

            Only when his arms dropped and a despondent look came on his face did I have room to scoot past and escape.

            I wish I could have told him why. But I’ve never been one to confront others. I was an emotionally and physically abused child. I’d worn the bruises of confrontation. Why would I want to do that to others?

            Not too many years after my mom died, my dad remarried. And then he had a stroke. I visited him in the hospital, out of duty, not of love. I never sat by his bedside. I never touched him. If he was awake, I’d talk to him from the other side of the hospital room. When I left, I’d simply walk out.

            This “new” dad was jovial. He laughed and smiled. He nodded a lot, as if he understood and agreed. His wife placed him in a home, then asked me to visit.

            Once a week I steeled myself and walk into the home, pretending that I really wanted to be there. I only went when I knew his wife would be there. My dad had his own room. Even though he couldn’t use his hands, I still feared his touch. Even though he couldn’t remember what he’d just eaten when the empty dishes sat in front of him, I still worried that he’d hurt me with words.

            His condition worsened. He had more strokes, leaving him more and more disabled. He still terrified me. I was in my fifties, but still impacted by how he’d treated me throughout my childhood and into my twenties.  

            At some point his wife called for a family meeting at the hospital. The Hospice contact was there. She explained that he was near death. Might go that day or in a few months.

            When the meeting ended, she told us to go to Dad’s room and say goodbye.

            I went into the room. I stood by his bed.

            My right hand rose. It neared his arm. It got close enough that I could feel the warmth of his skin.

            And then I started trembling.

            I walked away.

            And I’ve never regretted not telling either of my parents that I loved them, for that would have been a lie.

            I’ve never regretted not crying, for having them truly gone, was such a tremendous relief that there are no words to adequately describe.

            Both have been gone for many years, but what they did to me has never left me. I still carry it in my heart. Writing about it helps.

            So it is with no regrets that I put into words, once more, why I am the way I am. A person who refuses to regret the feelings that I hold even though I’ve tried to excise them from my heart.

            There’s nothing wrong with having no regrets.

A Walk in the Past

Posted on by
Reply

When I was in elementary school, every year we were given an assignment to write about our family’s Christmas traditions. We had none. No menorah to light or stockings to hang and no fireplace. We were Catholic, but not consistently practicing ones.

No advent candles marked the coming of Christmas. No extra trips to church; not even for confession. No special foods, except for a sickly-sweet date-based treat that my Grandma Rieske made.

My dad would buy a real tree and store it in the garage, in a bucket of water, until the time was right for decorating.  He always went alone. I never understood why I couldn’t go: choosing a tree seemed like it would be fun. But that’s not how my family functioned.

When it was time to decorate, my dad would stretch out the strings of lights all over the floor. He’d cuss and yell, often and loudly, because the wires would always be tangled despite being carefully stored away the prior year.

He’d plug them in, and if a string didn’t light, he would painstakingly replace a bulb, plug it back in. If it didn’t work, he’d remove the new bulb, put it in a different slot, and so on, until he’d get the thing to work.

At first it was fun to watch, but then he’d get angrier and angrier as time went on. I’d disappear.

Once he had lights, he was the one who strung them on the tree. According to him, he was the only one who could ensure proper placement.

One time my mom put the lights on when he was at work. Oh, that was a huge mistake! He threw a temper tantrum fit for a toddler.

My siblings and I were allowed to hang the ornaments, but only under his supervision. The sizes, shapes and colors had to be balanced, not clustered.

Our ornaments were cheap, easily breakable things. Nothing special about them, no heirlooms, no gifts from family.  Nothing fancy, either, just solid colors that were quickly fading.

Tinsel came next. There was an art to placing these strands of foil.

My dad was in charge of the process. He’d lie on his back, under the tree, and slowly, methodically, worked outward, would place one strand at a time, exactly one-inch space between each. 

The tinsel also had to drape evenly over the branch, so that the edges were in perfect alignment.

Night after night, my dad would slide under the tree, placing the tinsel so carefully that, when finished, it was a shimmering silver wave.

He’d work hi way up the trunk, always from inside out. He’d stop periodically to check of his work.  If he didn’t like something, he’d pull off all the tinsel from that section and start again.

None of us were allowed to drape a single tinsel on the tree.

It changed when we moved to California. My brother and I were both teens, in high school, and showing reasonable intelligence. Plus my dad was having difficulty finding full time work, and often drove for hours to and from a printing office that hired him for a day.

I don’t think he allowed us to take over out of trust, but rather because he lacked time and energy. He did, however, inspect our work. Anything found to be substandard had to be redone.

Only after the last bit of tinsel was applied were strings of garland added. There was an art for garland hanging.

You began in the back, tucking an end around a lower branch. As you circumnavigated the tree, the garland must travel in a wave-like pattern, rising and falling as with the tide. The distance between each wave had to be precise.

Interestingly enough, he had no rules about the color, so our garland strings were in many different colors over the years.

Another “tradition” concerned the manager. It could be displayed at any time after Thanksgiving. The entire entourage would be present, even though we all knew that the angels and shepherds didn’t arrive until Christ was born. The wise men bowed in supplication weeks before the baby appeared. The “star” was lit every night, pointing the way.

Even after my younger sister no longer believed in Santa, after we were in bed, Christmas Eve, my father unwrapped the baby Jesus and placed him before Mary and Joseph. I was the one who would go straight to the manger in the morning and announce that the Christ child had arrived.

My siblings headed for the gifts.

Gift opening took up an entire morning. We never had more than three gifts each, but my mother insisted that each gift be opened with the same precision and care that she put into the wrapping.

My dad handed out the gifts. My brother opened his first, then me, then my sister. Mom came next, and then my dad. Paper was gently removed, folded, and stacked.  Ribbon remnants and bows received the same treatment. “Leftovers” were packed away for the next year.

There were behavioral expectations. We had to show proper appreciation for each gift, meaning that there were oohes and aahes all morning long. Even if you didn’t like the gift, or had not asked for it, you had to fake appreciation and gratitude. Any sign of ungraciousness, and you were sent away while the rest of the family finished. Sometimes you’d get the rest of your gifts later that day, but not always.

You also had to sit perfectly still while someone else opened their gift.

We seldom had large meals. When you’re poor, you eat a lot of beans and potatoes, but on Christmas we enjoyed ham, scalloped potatoes, baked beans, rolls, and a homemade pie for dessert.

During the summer of my thirteenth year, when we still lived in Ohio, a surprise thunderstorm arose in the early morning. It was a viscous, thunderous affair, rattling not just windows, but the entire house.

There was a huge explosion that made me sit up in bed. My mother, not my dad, was the one who searched the house to make sure we were all okay. As she passed the room I shared with my sister, she told us to stay in bed, then closed the door.

Later on, we learned that lightning had struck the antenna attached to our garage.  My dad knew it had to be grounded, but had not had time to do so. When the lightning hit, our house exploded in a ball of fire.

After the volunteer firemen left, and the ashes had cooled, we discovered that the garage had suffered the most. One whole side was gone, and everything inside was melted metals and ash.

My mother insisted we sift through the remains. I didn’t want to, but I did so because it was expected.

It fascinated me how some things were whole while others were decimated.

My bike was unscathed, but my brother’s, which sat right next to mine, was a melted ruin. My mother’s canned foods sat proudly on their shelf, next to a crystal radio set that was a charred mess. 

The most surprising find was the Christmas manager. The manger itself was nothing but ash. Mary, Joseph, the angels, shepherds and wise men survived, but were badly charred. The baby Jesus, which had been wrapped, like all the other figures, in flimsy tissue paper, was unscathed. Not one burn mark.  All the fingers were there, as was the halo. 

If you didn’t know it had been in a fire, you’d think it had just come from the store.

Years late as I recall that morning, it gives me goose bumps. How could that figurine, cheaply made of a ceramic cast, have survived the intense heat of the blaze, when all the rest of the manger set was destroyed?

Standing in the still smoldering ruins of our garage, as I stared at the figurine cradled in my mother’s hands, I felt an electrical charge run up my back. An awareness stole over me, an awareness that just as baby Jesus was saved from the fire, so would I be spared from the never-ending torture that was my life.

I was convinced that as long as I believed in Him, I was promised life eternal. 

In my church we don’t usually talk about “being saved” or “accepting Jesus as my savior,” but I felt as if I had been pulled back from a precipice, and that I was, indeed, saved.

From those humble Christmas traditions, I did takeaway some important lessons. I developed respect for the gift and the giver. I understood pride in accomplishment. I discovered that Christmas was not about material possessions, but about the power of the Lord to pull us through fire and travesty.

Even though my relationship with my parents continued to be tense until they both passed away, I eventually understood that they wanted us to give homage where homage was due, to honor God and family, and to take time to enjoy the true meaning of Christmas.

First Impressions

Posted on by
Reply

            As soon as I knew we were leaving Ohio, possibly for California, I began researching what’s called The Golden State. Relying on library materials, I learned about the State and Federal Parks, Disneyland, the beaches and mountains. The endless sunshine, a relief from the frigid Midwest.

            What most excited me was the lure of the community college system, something which Ohio lacked back in 1964.

            I would be able to attend college, fulfilling a dream escape, for practically nothing. Tuition was free for residents, and by the time I graduated from  high school in 1967, I planned to enroll in the local community college. My primary costs would be books and supplies. My biggest problem would be transportation as my older brother had first dubs on the family car.

            I didn’t know all that when my parents sold our house in Beavercreek, Ohio, packed the family’s belongings in the back of the station wagon, then stuffed all five of us plus the dog inside.

            When we drove passed field after field of corn, at first I was interested, but soon grew board. I’d researched the Mississippi River, so I had a vague notion of how wide it was, I also knew it was called “muddy”, but didn’t truly understand mud until we stood along its shore. Mud and more mud, extending way out toward the center of the bridge that crossed from Tennessee into Missouri.

            I was terrified of that bridge. I’d never crossed one so high or so long and worried that it might collapse, dumping us in the rolling river, or perhaps bury us in the mud.

            I kept my fingers crossed until we were on the other side.

            The next big adventure took place in Colorado. We stayed in a motel within site of Pike’s Peak. The owners told us there was a way to get to the top, but as soon as my dad learned there was a fee, we didn’t go. I resented that for a long time even though I intrinsically understood that we had very little money.

            In the morning we drove parallel to the Rocky Mountains. There were many tourist stops along the way, but we bypassed them all, until we can to the Royal Gorge. It was, indeed, a gorge. I had no concept of depth, but when looking down below, the train tracks seemed miniature. This was reinforced when a freight train rumbled by. It was smaller than the tiniest gauge trains my dad had collected.

            There was a pedestrian bridge to the other side. My family wanted to walk it, but I flat out refused. I was afraid of heights, and the thought of taking one step onto the bridge made me nauseous. After much pleading and threats of punishment, I stood my ground. Because my parents wouldn’t let me stay behind, no one could cross the bridge.

            On we went, traveling higher and higher into the mountains. Dark clouds formed overhead. It sprinkled, then turned into a downpour. The windshield wipers couldn’t keep up, so our vision was blurred.

            At some point we came to an abrupt halt. Several vehicles were stopped ahead of us. My dad got out to investigate: a mudslide was blocking both lanes.

            Oh, that made him angry! My dad had budgeted exactly how far we could get in a day, figured out the cheapest hotels, and even where we might get meals.

            Being stuck in the Rockies didn’t fit his plans.

            When a truck made it over the mudslide, my dad decided we could as well. He revved the engine, put the car in gear, then up we went. Until we sunk into the mud.

            We were stuck until a large tow truck arrived from the west. It pulled us through, after collecting a fee. Unfortunately, there was damage to the car. I don’t recall what, but the parts had to be ordered. So we made an unplanned stop at an airconditioned motel that had a color TV!

            Crossing the desert was another adventure. I understood hot and humid, but nothing I’d ever experienced prepared me for how very hot Arizona is.

            Our car had no AC, so it was either roast with the windows up, or die with them down. I remember that we wound them down, suffered, wound them back up and suffered some more.

            I recall practically nothing about the dessert except that someone had told my dad to buy lots of water. Good thing, as the car broke down. It was miserable waiting in the car for help, and there was no shade in which to seek relief.

            I now know that I should have seen a variety of cacti, which, if I had been older than fourteen, would have been interesting.

            The most striking memory I have is when we passed through a Reservation. The houses were either made of logs and dirt or metal Army huts. They were far from each other and I saw no power lines. I couldn’t imagine living in that heat without electricity!

            Around lunch time was came to a store/restaurant that advertised its burgers. My dad pulled off the freeway and parked. I wanted to go inside! It was supposed to have AC!

            But there were “Indians” milling about on the front porch. And the way my dad said the word, it was as if something distasteful was spewing out.

            I’d known my parents were prejudiced against African-Americans since I was small. I had no idea that their hatred also went toward Indigenous People.

            When we drove away, a range of emotions overcame me. I was disgusted with the hatred, angry at not being able to visit what was called an Outpost, and starving. Tears filled my eyes as for many miles.

            Crossing Death Valley was something else that I’d yearned to do, even though I was afraid that we might get stuck and die. I never expected the steep descent, the miles and miles of nothing but dry dirt, then the ascent on the other side.

            We were there in August, so none of the cacti were in bloom. What a shame!

            California was a huge disappointment. We stopped in Bakersfield at a small strip motel that promised AC. The room was small. We’d just begun getting ready for bed when my mother screamed, yelled, threw such a temper tantrum about something that only she had seen. Next thing we were back in the car, my dad filing a complaint in the office.

            Bugs. That’s what she’d seen. I think bedbugs, which is kind of funny since I later learned in Biology that we carry around our own, personal infestation of bugs!

            My uncle lived somewhere in Orange County. Driving north in the early morning, a dense, foul-smelling fog enveloped us. My dad turned on the radio. That’s when we learned it wasn’t fog, but smog, a phenomenon that was new to us.

            Something else unexpected happened on our arrival in California: an earthquake. My uncle’s house jerked, throwing me to the floor. It rocked and rolled, and even from down on the rug, I could see telephone poles swaying.

            It probably only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like minutes.

            We got to go to Knott’s Berry Farm (boring because we couldn’t afford any rides) and Disneyland. My favorite ride was the cars that went nowhere. I got to be the “driver”, and even though I soon figured out we were on a track, I didn’t care. The sense of being in charge, of having a bit of freedom, filled me like nothing else ever had.

            My dad had heard of work in Sacramento, so we drove up there and quickly found a house to rent. I loved the house as the bedroom I shared with my sister faced the street. I hated the house because it was not air-conditioned. I also hated being assigned the job of weeding the gardens.  

            It seemed as if spiders and a variety of ugly bugs crawled up my arms every time I snipped or pulled. It made me queasy inside.

            It was also hard to sleep. The house was near an Air Force Base, and so planes flew overhead. Large, loud, planes that I assumed carried bombs.

            Swathes of planes. Hundreds, in a nonstop flight.

            I pictured one of them falling on our house. Maybe dropping its bombs. Maybe bursting into flame.

            I was really glad when we packed up and moved to South San Francisco.

            Our rental house was tiny. My sister and I had to have bunkbeds. If I reached my hands from bed to opposite wall, I could touch both at the same time.

            Good things happened there, however. I could walk to my new high school. I loved the sense of freedom that it gave me. For the first time in my life I was not constantly under the watchful eyes of my siblings or my parents.

            I went out for sports. Never was any good, but it bought me time after school. I joined clubs. I never fit in, but when they met after school, once again, it meant I didn’t have to hurry home. My classes were incredibly easy. So easy, in fact, that I became a straight-A student! Pretty good for a kid who didn’t learn to read until fourth grade and whom my parents and teachers back in Ohio thought was stupid.

            I began dreaming of college, sending away for brochures for any that seemed promising. In my junior year I applied for scholarships. I signed up to take a test of Union symbols, thinking it would be easy. I found out I had no aptitude for memorizing every Union symbol in the US.

            I didn’t get a scholarship, but I was given a gold-leafed dictionary, a prized possession.

            Then the state of California came through, offering me a full-ride to any college in the state.

            I was so proud, so happy. I chose colleges that would allow me to move away from home, to get away from my oppressive and abusive environment.

            I wanted SF State, but my parents refused to let me live on campus. Their reasoning was that SF was a dangerous city.

            They did let me go to USC, only because my brother would be there to “protect” me.

            If only they’d know that that college was in the middle of a ghetto, they would have said no. But by the time I’d been accepted and assigned a dorm, it was too late.

            It’s interesting how first impressions are sometimes true, often not.

            The corn fields were fascinating until there weren’t. The same with the Rockies and then the desert.

            California greeted us with foul air and a good shaking, but later sent me off to college, away from my many years of being abused.

            I quickly fell in love with my new home state. There was so much to see and do, and since most parks were free at that time, we got to see quite a few.

            My impression of my state is one of joy, amazement, and definitely, love. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.

A Fool

Posted on by
Reply

            My parents wouldn’t let me attend the college of my choice. I’d applied to and been accepted at Ohio State University. My grandma had agreed to let me live with her, in exchange for light duties at her house. It would be a short bus ride, doable even in the winter.

            My parents, being what we now call “helicopter” parents, didn’t want me leaving the San Francisco Bay Area where we now live.

            That left San Francisco State, a good choice for a would-be teacher. They also disapproved of that, as they refused to allow me to live on campus or commute into the city.

            My brother and I both received State scholarships that would pay 100% of our tuition, to any college in the state. So I could have gone to SF State at no cost, but that didn’t matter.

            My brother applied for USC, down in Los Angeles. I was told I could apply there as well, and if he got in, then I could go.

            That’s how I ended up at USC, a rich-kids’ school. I was completely out of my league. My first roommate was so rich that she only wore clothing items once. She’d pile them up, then on the weekend her mother would appear with a rack, yes, an actual rack, of items still in plastic bags.

            My clothes were mostly made by my mother, although I’d learned how to sew and had made bell-bottoms and one-yard skirts, both in style with what were then called hippies.

            Academically I was fine. As a math major, as long as I stayed in my department, I aced my classes. I found Russian easy, but not any of the mandatory sciences, social studies and English courses.

            Socially, I was a misfit. A painfully shy teen with large black-framed glasses just doesn’t seem to interesting to vibrant, do-everything classmates.

            Although my brother was also socially awkward, he fit in with the engineering students who were just like him. He even got into a fraternity, composed of others like him.

            I found them endearing.

            The guys accepted me as a little sister. Every Friday night I gathered around a tiny TV and watched Star Trek with them. We drank, ate and talked about the plausibility of such things happening. It was great fun.

            One of the “brothers” took an interest in me. George was a sweet guy. He took me out to eat, to movies, and to many of the fraternity’s parties. I felt a bond with him that no teen had ever given me before.

            After a night of heavy petting, I told George that perhaps we should hold off on going any further until we were married.

            He hadn’t proposed, mind you. I just assumed he would and I was prepared to accept.

            He broke my heart that night. George was non-practicing Jewish while I was a devout Catholic. In my mind, it wouldn’t matter and my faith would be our family’s faith. George didn’t agree.

            Our relationship ended amicably.

            My brother knew I was good at languages. One of his brothers needed help with Spanish and my brother offered my services without consulting me first.

The guy was a creep. There was something about “Jim” that made me extremely uncomfortable. He’d never touched me or said much of anything to me, but I didn’t like being in the same room with him.

I agreed to tutor him.

The first time we met, I assumed we’d work in the dining room. Nope. He insisted in studying in his room, which he shared with another guy, claiming that he wanted privacy.

Nothing happened that night except for him scooting closer and closer to me as we sat on the edge of the bed.

I didn’t want to go back, but my brother insisted.

Reluctantly I agreed on a second meeting, on the condition that we’d be in the dining room.

Jim refused, taking my hand and dragging me into the bedroom. I should have left right then, but that would have caused a scene.

Throughout our session, more than once, Jim leaned so close to me that his warm breath tickled my neck. I’d moved away, but then he’d sidle over. When he grew tired of Spanish, he pulled me down on his bed.

Thankfully nothing happened. That night.

I refused to return.

What I didn’t know was that now I had a reputation of “putting out”.

I learned this from another fraternity brother, Paul. He was socially awkward like me. He was overweight like me. He was extremely smart, taking challenging classes, like me.

Paul took me to the opera and theater, my first time to ever experience a performance on a big stage.

We’d spend hours talking, sometimes until the early morning. At no time did Paul kiss me or attempt to kiss me.

I liked him, but more of as a friend. I assumed it was the same for him. Paul was the one who told me about the rumors. He said he enjoyed being with me despite what was being said.

After that I stayed away from the fraternity.

One summer I applied for an on-campus job that paid pretty well. I’d be able to stay in the Soroptimist House where I’d been living.

One afternoon I was outside on the balcony sunbathing, when a familiar voice called me. I looked over the railing, and there was Jim. He informed me that my brother had asked him to keep an eye out for me, to make sure I was safe.

I told Jim that I was fine, turned away, gathered my stuff and went inside.

Jim returned the next day and the next. I insisted I didn’t want or need his help. I told him to leave and not come back.

After that I didn’t see Jim for a long time.

One afternoon as I walked back from the Law Library,  a building that I found peaceful and still, I was smiling and enjoying the weather.

A red convertible pulled up next to me. It belonged to Jim, who was now married. I continued walking and he continued following.

He insisted he and his wife wanted to share their wedding photos. That seemed fairly safe since she would be there, so I got in the car. Big mistake.

As soon as we were in the apartment, Jim locked and bolted the door.

The sofa-bed was open with clean sheets on it, as if he’d been expecting company.

I knew something was wrong and that I should leave, but the door was locked.

As an abused child, I knew about being trapped and that there was no way out except to just go along with the scenario.

Jim sat on the bed and patted the spot next to him. The album was on the bed. He showed a few pictures, and then he made his move.

At first it was just kissing, but then his hands went under my t shirt and then into my shorts. He pushed me backwards and fell on top of me.

I knew nothing about sex, had never seen a penis, and had little about rape, yet instinctively knew that something awful was about to happen.

Jim undressed me, then removed his shirt. He wore the most gruesome smile as he pulled down his pants. He bragged about his size and how good it would make me feel.

His fingers entered me.

Jim shot up, a look of shock on his face.

He said he didn’t know I was a virgin because of my reputation.

Things happened very quickly after that.

He got dressed, told me to get dressed.

While I was quickly putting my clothes on, he stripped the bed and then folded it back up. He then unlocked and unbolted the door and told me to leave.

His parting shot, however, was that if I ever told anyone, he would deny having stolen my virginity.

I ran to the next building and ducked into the lavatory. I slid to the floor and huddled there until someone wanted in.

For quite a while I wondered if that constituted rape. If I had seduced him, as he claimed. I understood that he had taken something precious away from me, but that if I told anyone, no one would believe me due to the reputation I had at the fraternity.

For my remainder years at USC, I kept a lookout for Jim.

I sometimes saw that red convertible, then would run down a closed-off section of campus.

One time, when back at home, my family took a trip to Napa County to visit wineries.

On the way there, my brother announced he had invited Jim and wife.

I panicked. My chest tightened and my eyes pooled with tears.

I announced that I would stay in the car. My dad, wisely said, it was too hot. True, but it meant that I had to see Jim.

Finally I told the truth, that he had raped me.

I got the response that many women, even today, get: that I must have done something to deserve it.

My mother said I was lying as no friend of my brother’s would do that.

So, as a supposed liar, I had to walk into the winery with Jim.

He gave me what I now know was a leer, a look that acknowledged what he had done and that reaffirmed that I could tell no one.

Back then I felt like a fool.

Now I know I was abused, this time not by my parents, but by Jim.

An Unexpected Surprise

Posted on by
2

            When you grow up in a dysfunctional family, happy memories are few and far between. It’s easy to dredge up the pain and sorrow, to recall the angry words and the punishments that followed, but difficult to find just one that didn’t hurt.

            Today my husband and I went out for ice cream. After enjoying my delicious treat, as we were driving home, a sudden flash appeared: my sitting on a stool at a Walgreen’s counter.

            We seldom ate out. When you’re low income, money is tight and not spent on restaurant meals.

            When I was in fourth grade, we lived in a suburb of Dayton, Ohio. My mom had just learned to drive, which really made life better when all our doctor appointments were in the city.

            I don’t remember why I was the only one with my mother. That rarely happened. My mother must have left my brother with someone, a relative probably, as she had no friends in the neighborhood. I don’t recall taking him somewhere, but we must have.

            I’m not sure why we were in town. It was around the time the principal of my elementary school told my father that I could not return without glasses. That’s the most logical reason for our outing.

            I knew, even then, that when my mother left home at thirteen, she moved to Cincinnati to live with an older sister. She helped my mom get a job at a Woolworth’s Department Store. I don’t know what she did there as she was so young.

            Anyway, here we were, sitting on stools in a Woolworth’s in downtown Dayton. A bunch of colorful balloons floated above our heads, all tied to a long string so as not to float away.

            Like any kid, I loved balloons. The colors, the way they flew about my head, the feeling of owning something that was just mine. Until my brother popped mine. Every last balloon I possessed he popped. Probably out of meanness. Maybe out of jealousy.

            Anyway, here was a bright, colorful, happy-looking array of balloons. I wanted one so badly that all thoughts were erased from my head except for the one of owning a balloon.

            The person behind the ice cream counter told me I could have any balloon I wanted. I recall looking at my mother to see if this were true. Possible. I remember holding my breath as I waited for her response.

            When the clerk said the balloons held surprises, that each one had a slip of paper inside that would reveal what ice cream treat I could have. I think she said that a few balloons awarded a free treat. A completely free ice cream treat!

            Even at that young age I understood that nothing was free. If something good came my way it would be immediately followed by something bad. But I was a kid and kids hope.

            When my mother nodded that I cold pick a balloon, I was shocked. I. Got. To. Pick.

            I am sure my eyes were wide in disbelief. I am positive that I knew I’d never win. But, like any kid, I imagined that my balloon would give me something free. Maybe an ice cream soda, or if I was really lucky, a banana split.

            But there was a really good chance that all I’d get was a cheap sucker. One of those wrapped in cheap plastic that doctor’s give after a shot. There was a glass jar of suckers on the counter right in front of the clerk.

            I liked suckers. Any color, any flavor. We seldom had them, so winning a sucker wouldn’t be a bad thing. Just not the thing I wanted most of all: a banana split.

            My mother grew impatient as I stared up at the balloons, trying to see through, to read the slip so as to ensure that I got that banana split.

            The clerk asked what I was hoping to win. I looked first to my mother, then when she nodded, I said, loud and clear (something unusual for me), that I wanted a banana split.

            My mother laughed. Not a happy laugh, but a mocking laugh. You’ll never win that, she said. Or I seem to recall her saying.

            It seems as if my shoulders must have slumped. I bet my whole body slumped.

            I think the clerk told me to take a chance. That she thought I’d be a winner. Just point and tell her which one I wanted.

            Back then, as now, blue was my favorite color. Except for the years when my Catholic school uniform was blue. But I loved blue t-shirts, blue socks, blue shorts and really, really wanted a pair of blue tennis shoes I’d seen in the bargain store where we shopped. I’d never gotten the shoes.

            There were several blue balloons. One way up high, one to the right, one to the left, and one right on front of me, so close I could have touched it. I thought about that one. It was so close, so it must be the lucky one, right? But that would have been too easy.

            I nodded. The only balloon that might be lucky was the blue one so close to the ceiling that it brushed the tiles when the fan’s blades came near. I pointed with my right hand, my middle finger extended.

            Are you sure the clerk asked. It’s pretty far away.

            She made me question my choice. Did she know something that I didn’t? Did she know that one held a worthless slip of paper? Or was she trying to steer me away from a sure winner? The one with the biggest prize?

            It made sense that she’d trick me into making a poor choice. After all, my life had been one poor choice after another. Why should this be any different?

            By now my mother was getting impatient. I could tell by the way her eyebrows scrunched up and wrinkles formed around her eyes. If I didn’t make a choice soon, there’d be trouble later on.

            I changed my mind and went for the blue balloon right in front of me.

            The clerk popped it, a noise that always made me cringe.

            She handed me the slip of paper. My reading skills weren’t so good back then, so my mom had to read it to me.

            I’d gotten a discount on a cone of ice cream. Unsure what a discount was, I’d asked. All it meant was that it would be a bit cheaper.

            The clerk must have been clever at reading faces, for mine registered intense disappointment. My eyes filled with tears.

            Don’t you want an ice cream cone she asked.

            I shook my head.

            My mother grabbed my hand and pulled me off the stool. Sorry, she said, we don’t have enough money even with the discount.

            Choose another balloon, the clerk said.

            I turned to my mother and saw frustration and anger. She wanted to leave. I knew then that she had never intended to buy me an ice cream. She took me there for the free sucker in cheap plastic.

            The clerk repeated that I got to choose another balloon.

            I decided to take a risk and go for a red balloon. Red was not my color. I’d never liked it. But I had nothing to lose. So I pointed to a red balloon off to the right.

            The clerk pulled it out of the bunch and popped it. She didn’t give the slip of paper to my mom. She read it aloud. I had won a free banana split!

            I didn’t know what that was, but based upon the happy look on the clerk’s face, I understood that it was special. A rare treat.

            My mom said I could have it.

            The clerk peeled a banana and then split if down the middle. She placed the pieces on either sides of a glass bowl. She added scoops of chocolate, strawberry and vanilla ice cream. Not the tiny scoops I’d get whenever we were lucky enough to have ice cream at home, but huge, huge scoops.

            She added toppings. Pineapple, Strawberries. Marshmallows. The tiny kind.

            Over that she poured chocolate sauce. Not my favorite, but glorious in its brown gooiness. On top went huge fluffy swirls of whipped cream with a bright red cherry on each mound.

            When she placed it before me, I was in shock. It was more ice cream than I’d ever had in my whole life if you added up all the tiny bowls I’d eaten before. And this was all for me.

            Or so I thought.

            The clerk handed me a spoon. Then gave one to my mother.

            I really didn’t want her to have any. This was mine. I’d won it fair and square. I understood fairness at that point. Fair things seldom happened to me. To my brother, yes, if my mom was the one in charge. But never to me.

            My mother told me to get started eating before the ice cream melted. That we had to hurry because I’d taken so long to choose. That if we didn’t get home soon my dad would be angry.

            My dad’s anger was terrifying. He shouted words I didn’t know but felt that they registered disapproval. He hit hard, so hard it left bruises. He shook me until it felt like my head was going to topple off. And his spankings left belt marks on my backside.

            I picked up my spoon and got to work, shoveling in the gooey combination so fast that my nose froze. I scooped faster and faster, taking very little time to relish and enjoy.

            My mother worked from the other side, eating slower, but still chipping away at my treat.

            I didn’t get to finish it.

            When there was still more than half left, my mother announced that we had to leave. She stood, buttoned her jacket, then lifted me off the stool.

            I bet my eyes filled with tears. I am pretty sure that my body registered my disappointed anger, something I had perfected.

            It’s funny how some memories stay hidden for a gazillion years while others stay fresh year after year.

            I can remember the punishments my dad dished out as if they happened yesterday. But this one happy moment, this one time when I got a very special treat has remained hidden for well over sixty years.