Tag Archives: relationships

    A Teacher’s Lament

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 I spoke with your teacher today,

And this is what she had to say:

Please tell Billy I like him a lot

But not when he licks each tiny spot

Of food off his plate.

It’s just plain gross.

It’s not polite to pick your nose

That’s why tissue’s good for blows

Putting snot between his teeth

Makes kids stare beyond belief

You just don’t do it

It’s just plain gross.

He needs to keep his shoes on his feet

The stench smells like rotten meat

While in the playground yard

Children find it too hard

To forgive him.

It’s just plain gross.

People don’t put their hands on their butts

And scratch until they make big cuts

Blood through the clothes

And a stick up the nose

It’s just plain gross.

Wedgies are not fun to receive

And when he complains, I believe

He only got what he deserved

Get back that which you served

And whine not

It’s just plain gross.

As far as work, Billy’s losing out

He wrinkles papers and runs about

Seldom sits for more than a minute

Pencils in places where they don’t fit

He’s failing

It’s just plain gross.

There’s not much more that I can say

Except that you should be on your way

To talk to Billy.  Tell him I care

For him I’d go anywhere

To find him help.

He’s not that gross.

Commitment

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the story of a marriage

is one of

trials

and

tribulations

forgiveness

and

letting go

of errors made

love

and

anger

compromise

and

patience

walking together

through life

sharing times

good

and

bad

most of all

reveling

in each other’s

company

until death

do us part

No Regrets

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            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.

The Shell

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Walking along the beach,

I found a shell.

an ordinary shell

it is perfectly formed

six rows of ridges

ruffles

completely round

except for where it joined

its twin when still whole

the shell feels surprisingly cool

and light

as if it’s soul’s mate

disappeared long ago

as I stare out at the Pacific Ocean

I wonder where this clam

might have lived

and how it got to this spot

on this very day

in time for me to pick it up

Years ago, my family moved

to California

a long journey

I felt the hollowness

of forced abandonment

like the clam

I was not in charge of my destiny

that power lay in my parents’ hands

I was an ordinary person

no great beauty

smart, but lacking common sense

or so I had been told

my parents picked the city

the house, even the school

all I did was move in

confined by their overarching rules

until I went to college

for years I drifted through life

swept by the tides

working at one job, then another

until marriage grounded me

now I stand with feet in the damp sand

rejoicing in the gifts given me,

such as simple clam shell

held in the hand

Self-Made Image

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            A song on the radio made a huge impact recently. The premise is that we remake ourselves as we grow, learn and explore. I have definitely done that.

            I was an abused child. Both of my parents beat me, humiliated me, isolated me from my peers. My older brother pinched me, kicked me and called me names. My younger sister mocked me, taunted me and regularly lied to my parents, accusing me of hurting her and then smirking as severe punishment was inflicted upon me.

            If I had been asked to measure my self-esteem, it would have been a big, fat zero. I believed myself to be not just stupid, but an idiot. I was told that I was incapable of succeeding in anything, I am believed it.

            Nevertheless, I was expected to receive the highest marks on all my work. Or be punished.

            It didn’t make sense: if I was stupid, how was I going to get those grades?

            Fear of punishment motivated me to study, study, study.

            Despite being the invisible student in the room, I somehow pleased my teachers. I couldn’t speak in a loud enough voice to be heard, but when called to go up to the board, I excelled.

            I set goals for myself at a young age, goals that my family said were impossible for me to achieve.

            The only place where I felt safe was at school. I was scared of my teachers, afraid I’d disappoint them, but I revered them so much that I yearned to be them.

In high school I tried out for badminton, bowling, basketball and softball. I was the top badminton player in the school. I was good enough to be on the best bowling team.

Despite my short stature, I was a great defender in basketball, primarily due to my sharp eyes and quick hands. Softball was the exception: I was terrified of the huge ball, and even though I could easily send a hardball soaring, I couldn’t get the softball too much beyond the pitcher’s mound.

I had begun changing my self-image from the incapable idiot to a surprisingly good athlete.

My grades were good enough to earn a state scholarship that paid 100% of tuition at any college in California.

This surprised my counselor. She had called me into her office before the scholarships were announced to tell me that I’d never graduate from college and that I should be looking for a job.

I was determined to prove her wrong. At the end of my first semester at the community college, I made an appointment with the counselor to show her my grades. I was gloating. I love watching the surprise on her face.

When I was finally allowed to leave home for college, I now had the opportunity to take charge of my life. I shared a room in the dorm, which was my only restriction. I could eat whenever and whatever I wanted.

I chose my classes and professors. I stayed up late studying. I found people like me who welcomed me.

I dated. Tried to join a sorority, but didn’t like the wealthy, stuck-up girls.

I got contacts at the university’s vision clinic. They hurt and I was terrible at sticking them in my eyes, but for the first time since I got glasses in fourth grade, I didn’t feel like a freak.

I made my skirts and pants in modern lengths and styles.

As best as I could despite being poor, I tried to look like my peers.

I went to football games, I got an on-campus jog watching the desk at a residence hall. I was in charge of others for the first time in my life.

On a walk across campus, I heard music that drew me in. It came from the Neumann Center, during a Catholic Mass. Something about the guitars, drums, piano and other instruments, plus the joyous music spoke to me. I began spending more and more time there, even going on several retreats with them. Religion took on a new meaning. It was no longer about fear and punishment, but love.

The most difficult part of my journey was when I had to return home after graduation. Once again, I was subjected to the emotional and physical abuse of parents and siblings. I was a young woman who was treated as if she was a not-very-bright child.

My goal was freedom.

First I had to get a job. That wasn’t easy. Back in the late 1970s, women were expected to work in offices, teach or be a nurse. I had no office skills and couldn’t stand being around sick people.

I wanted to teach, but had no money to pay for college. And, there was a glut of teachers looking for jobs.

I got a good job with the federal government doing something that I had no interest in and no skills at knocking on doors and demanding back taxes. But, I made a career out of it in order to first, buy my own car.

Having transportation meant that I could escape. As soon as I had enough money, I wanted to buy a car. But…I had no credit history so my dad had to cosign. He wouldn’t let me buy the car I wanted, instead insisting I get a Ford Pinto. I rebelled by choosing the ugliest one on the lot.

Next was an apartment. As I drove about as part of my job, I kept an eye out for available apartments. I visited rental offices. In time, I narrowed down my search to a nice complex in San Bruno. It was close to the freeway, a requirement so that I could drive into San Francisco for work.

Moving into my tiny studio allowed me to be free! My parents no longer had any say over my life. If I did see them and they became abusive, I could leave.

I had reinvented myself as a self-supporting woman, one who was successful enough to have her own car and apartment.

From then on, my self-image morphed almost continuously.

I was a successful government employee. I oved into the teaching component, where I led studies in tax collection.

I met the most marvelous man in the San Mateo office, who is still my husband 49 years later.

I added wife and then mother to my resume. I didn’t know how to mother, and especially didn’t want to be a replica of my own mother. The local recreation department offered classes in parenting. From them, I learned how to teach my own kids, how to come up with activities, how to offer support and encouragement.

It wasn’t always easy and I made mistakes, but I tried to learn from each.

When my kids got older, I returned to college to earn an AA degree in Early Childhood Education. I loved the coursework.

Then I transferred to Holy Names College where I completed an Elementary Teaching Certificate.

When I did get hired, I put in long hours on curriculum, bulletin boards, grading. I wanted to be an excellent teacher, for my students, yes, but also to prove to myself that I could.

By the ripe old age of forty, I was an entirely different person from the shy, frightened kid that started elementary school.

I have continued to work on my self-image, even as an older woman.

I do what I want to do when I want to do it. I am in charge of my life. I have a loving, supportive husband who had encouraged me to explore a variety of interests.

I am proud of who I am today.

The Belt

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            As a kid, I hated the belt. I didn’t own one, but I dreaded it being slapped against my backside. And considering that I was a sulky, petulant kid, I frequently felt its sting.

            There was a good reason that I didn’t wear belts. When you are obese, the belt it the las thing you’d ever want to put on your body.

            Consider the rolls of fat that encircle the waists of overweight people. A belt would either have to fit between the rolls, creating mounds of flesh above and below, or sit on top of the stomach. Both would emphasize the amount of fat. Not a pretty picture.

            My tops were more like dresses as they had to get wider the further south they went. And dresses were actually modified tents for the same reason. In either case, belts were unnecessary.

            I never owned a pair of shorts or pants that utilized a belt. Not until I was much older, anyway.

            Consider the waistband. If it requires a belt, it most likely has no elastic. The fabric is reinforced and somewhat stiff. A belt slides through loops until it passes through the buckle.

            Now on an obese person, the waistband of pants fits, as before, between the roll of the stomach and the bulge of lower abdomen. It hurts, to say the least.

            Add a belt and buckle. Every time you bend over, the buckle presses into the stomach. The pressure of that fat bends the buckle outward, often at a twenty-five-degree angle or more. Not only is it uncomfortable, it looks ridiculous.

            While my school mates wore uniforms that had a tailored waist, I had to wear the old hand-me-down uniforms that were faded blue, which was embarrassing, but those old ones hung tent-like. Plus they were in my size while the new ones were not.

            Imagine being the fourth grader who is so fat that she has to wear someone else’s faded tent to school? I was marked as being poor and fat, a deadly combination.

            So until I became a teenager and had more control over what I was/was not eating, my only experience with a belt was as a device for punishment.

            As many teens, angst hit me full-force. The sulky child became a depressed, withdrawn teen. I spent hours in my bedroom, whenever my sister was somewhere basking in the glory of my mother’s adulation.

            I lost my appetite for anything my mom cooked, primarily because she relied on potatoes, deep fried foods, beans cooked with bacon or fats, and other such high-calorie combinations. And, emotionally I was a wreck. I hated being at home where I could end up in trouble for doing nothing or something. I seethed with unspent anger, at the parents, my brother and my sister. I had difficulty reining in my desires to lash out, so it just boiled and roiled inside.

            Food didn’t taste good and what I was forced to eat sat heavy in my stomach.

            I began to lose weight, which troubled my mom who believed that fat children had greater odds of surviving, which didn’t make sense as she was, and had always been, thin.

            When I compared myself to her, I felt a sense of betrayal and confusion. There was a double-standard there before I ever knew the term. It was fine for her to have a trim, beautiful body, but not me.

            My sister was allowed to be thin, but not me.

            It was almost as if my mother didn’t want competition from me, and so she kept me ugly on purpose.

            That’s how I felt.

            In time, I could wear clothing with belt-loops, but I still saw myself as fat. It wasn’t until I left home for college that I believed myself thin enough to walk about in short, fitting skirts with belts.

            My mother still made many of my clothes, and so I had tent-style dresses and elasticized waists, which I was force to pack when I left home. I didn’t wear them, however and my mom never knew. She wasn’t on campus to see.

            This was not my first act of rebellion, but it solidified my understanding of my own power to say no.

            No to being spanked with a belt. No to being the misunderstood middle child who’d been repeatedly told she was worthless. No to being the fat kid, the bullied kid. No to being the mindless person that my parents wanted me to be.

            I bought myself a belt as a trophy. And wore it proudly.

            Most people probably think that a belt is a fashion accessory. They most likely have no idea that it is also a weapon. A weapon of torture as well as a weapon that separates the obese from the rest of society.

            The next time you see a fat kid without a belt, don’t tsk-tsk and shake your head.

            Instead think about the reasons that child isn’t wearing one. And if you do that, your perception of that child and many others will instantly change.

            The belt may be a fashion statement in your eyes, but in the child’s it’s a source of fear and humiliation.

Grandma’s Gift

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            When I was a little girl, probably five or six years of age, someone gave me an old, cheap plastic doll. It’s arms and legs moved and I could rotate its head a bit to the right or left. Its hair was painted auburn and its lips a light shade of red. It was nothing fancy, but it was my first doll.

We were quite poor, so I appreciated the plastic doll most likely more than a rich kid would have. In fact, a rich girl would probably have tossed it in the trash.

But not me. I was proud of the doll and so carried it everywhere.

            At the time we lived in Dayton, Ohio, in a housing development that I later understood was projects reserved for the very poor. Our house was quite small. I seem to recall only two bedrooms, a tiny kitchen, and a front room. There was a screened-in porch out back that held a wringer washing machine. That thing terrified me, because my mom repeatedly warned me of the dangers of getting my hand stuck in the rollers. Nevertheless, she made me feed the damp clothes into the noisily grinding machine.

            At that time my older brother was the bain of my existence. He teased me, pushed me around, took things from me and ridiculed my pudgy body. Despite my cries of protest, my parents did nothing to stop him.

As a small child, I already understood the power he held over me and the lack of stature I had within the family.

For some reason, my brother hated my doll. He frequently stole it from me, then would dangle it above my head until my cries grew so loud as to bring my mother into the scene. He was told to give it to me, which he did, but even though he repeated that same action daily, he was never told to stop.

            My mother’s parents were extremely poor. They lived in a tiny rented house in Galipolis, Ohio. Because it was such a long drive from our house, we visited them only once a year.

While we had little, they had even less. We had furnace for heat, while they had a huge coal-burning furnace in their front room. We had running water in the bathroom and kitchen, while they had an outhouse (which terrified me) and a pump in the kitchen that poured out the coldest, most refreshing water I’d ever tasted.

            After my grandmother gave me the doll, I brought it with me every time we returned for a visit. And, every time, during the car ride, my brother would take it away from me and hold it up against the window, out of my reach. I’d cry. He’d refuse to give it back, then I’d cry louder.

I never fought back physically as he was bigger and stronger.

            When we arrived at my grandparent’s house one time, after getting hugs from Grandma, I went outside on my own to play with my doll. This was not unusual. Even at home I played by myself. I enjoyed my own company, coloring, drawing, and once we lived somewhere with a swing set, swinging for hours.

My brother often followed me outside. He’d sneak up behind me, then do something to hurt me. It might be a violent push that sent me to the ground, scuffing knees and hands.

This time, he only chased me around my grandparent’s back yard. In a way, it was better than being pushed, but my legs were shorter than his and so I moved much slower. I knew I would lose eventually because I always did.

As soon he trapped me against the side of the house, he stole the doll, which I had expected. However, I didn’t think he’d ever really damage the doll as the risks to him would then become a possibility.

Well, with an evil glint, after throwing my doll on the ground, he raised his right foot and stomped on it. Over and over until the arms, legs and body were shattered pieces of plastic. I howled, long and loud.

My grandma came to investigate. She was normally so quiet that I was always surprised when I’d spot her in a room. When she did speak, it was in a whisper that only the person closest to her could hear.

So when she stormed out of her screened porch and marched up to where I stood wailing, I was shocked. And even more so when Grandma asked what had happened, then listened as I told her the tale.

Then, to my even greater surprise, she chastised my brother and told him to go sit on the porch. She took me by the hand, walked me inside and proceeded to wipe off my face. Gave me a cup of cold water. And held me close, brushing my hair off my reddened face.

When we left that night, of course there was no doll to take home. I cried all the way home.

Months passed. In time I forgot about my doll as I had moved on to other things. I colored obsessively, filling page after page of coloring books that relatives gave me, getting better at staying within the lines.

A full year passed with nothing changing in my life. My brother still teased, pushed, pulled, pinched and ridiculed. My parents still did little to stop the abuse.

When summer came, we returned to my grandparent’s house. As always, Grandma greeted me at the door with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. But then a most magical thing happened. Slowly, ever so slowly, she pulled something from behind her back.

Imagine my surprise to see my doll, fully restored.

To be precise, only the doll’s head was intact. My grandma had created a hand sewn body made of beige cloth. It had sewn lines to indicate fingers and toes. Better yet, it now had clothes where before it was naked!

She’d made underpants, a slip and a dress.

It was beautiful!

I hugged it, tears in my eyes. I whispered thanks, then sat in an old rocker, my doll cradled in my arms.

What happened next surprised me. Grandma turned to my brother and in a firm voice, told him that he had better, never take that doll from me or he’d have to answer to her, and she would not be gentle.

My grandma had given me a precious gift. It was more than doll and clothes.

She made me feel special. But most importantly, loved.

I still have that doll. It is now more than 68 years old. It occupies a place of honor in my house. Whenever I see it, it speaks to me of the first person who loved me as I am.

Forgiveness

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            Being raised Catholic, I carried a load of guilt around for many years. There were the times I’d yelled back at my parents, fought with my siblings, talked back to my high school Spanish teacher.

            I disliked my family so much that I hated being around them. Even phone calls were painful.

            After years of physical and emotional abuse, I began to fight back, openly defying their orders.

            This was hard to do when you’ve been raised to be obedient to your elders. Granted my brother was only a year and a half older, but in our family, he was in a position of authority over me. What never made sense was why, since my sister was seven years younger, she could boss me around, blame me for her actions and make my life miserable.

            I went to confession regularly and offered up my sins of disobedience. I said my prayers of penance, then went right back to disobeying and arguing.

            Time didn’t lessen my guilt. I fought against my parents’ dislike of everything I had accomplished, their demeaning comments, their constantly comparing me negatively to my siblings.

            Despite graduating from college with honors, earning several teaching certificates and credentials, landing an important position of authority, I was a failure in their eyes.

            Despite having a gently loving husband and three wonderful children, I failed as wife and mother.

            My house wasn’t clean enough, my meals not good enough, my sewing clothes for myself and my kids not good enough.

            I didn’t call often enough, didn’t visit often enough, didn’t allow the kids to visit often enough.

            For many years I carried that guilt, so heavy that I imagined it bending my back in half.

            No matter that I begged God to forgive my sinfulness, to make my family love me, those prayers were never answered.

            Until I started listening to my husband.

            His love taught me that I was lovable. He showed me that I was an intelligent, capable wife and mother. He encouraged me to return to college, year after year, slowly completing coursework that qualified me to teach Special Needs students.

            I learned that I wasn’t responsible for how my family saw me, treated me. That I couldn’t stop their hate, their dismissal of my accomplishments.

            Most importantly, I understood that they would never apologize. And if they couldn’t do that, then I didn’t have to forgive them ever again.

            Forgiveness freed me to become who I am today.

            What a powerful lesson!

Flowers, Flowers Everywhere

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It didn’t take too long to realize

That I had begun to fantasize,

And I was forced to carefully apprise

The situation before my eyes.

My time had come, that much was certain.

I stupidly stared at the white curtain,

After my legs had stopped their dartin’

And my poor heart had ceased its hurtin’

The doctor, a diagram he traced

Of my heart: at me he boldly faced

And now declared, as my eyes gazed

At my demise. I was sorely fazed.

Later that day, I died, to my surprise.

Sad I was this good world to be partin’

The flowers still remain where they were placed.

A Fool

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            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.