Happy Birthday, John.

This is a very difficult post to write.  But, I feel, a necessary one.  Bear with me, it's bound to be emotional.

I have been at the crossroads of several heavy conversations lately.  At an intentional community I am involved with, we have been talking about many issues that faced America this year, including racism and race relations.  These discussions caused us to recall some experiences with some racists in our lives.  One of the biggest racists in my life was my stepfather, John.

I recall an incident when I was just seven.  We went down to John's parents' house for lunch.  My stepbrothers were visiting, and were playing on Grandma and Pap's swing set with some black children who lived up the street.  I will never forget my stepfather's fury as, regardless that he didn't own the house or swing set, with a few curt words, he ordered the children away.  Nor will I ever forget their slumped posture and hung heads as they walked from the yard.

And the day I discovered blues music.  What very few people know about me is I love blues music, the older and scratchier-sounding, the better.  My love for blues came because of a visit to a friend of Big Grandma's.  Big Grandma was my stepfather's maternal grandmother, and my babysitter before I started school.  One day, she took me along on a visit to a black lady who lived up the street.  Alas, I don't remember the lady's name, only that when we arrived, she was listening to a scratchy old blues LP (remember LPs?  They were long-playing records, millenials!) out on her front porch.  She offered us the tastiest peach iced tea I've ever had, and after awhile, she and Big Grandma suggested I stretch out for a nap on her glider on the other side of the porch while they shared some adult girl talk.  As usual, I didn't really nap, but daydreamed, the taste of the sweet peach tea on my lips, and listened to the rise and fall of the two ladies' voices, while a summer breeze caressed me.  And the scratchy blues music was the soundtrack wrapped around it all.

We left after an hour or so, and as we walked down the street, I asked Big Grandma if we could go back sometime.  She was non-committal, but one thing she was very emphatic about:

"Don't tell Johnny." 

No matter what, my stepfather was never to know about our visit.  I gave my word.  And no one ever knew about it until more than ten years later, after my mother's divorce from him.  And I never really began to indulge my love for blues music until around age 30.  I am lucky in my friendship with Melissa Pedersen, because she has introduced me to some internet stations who play the finest Americana and Roots music I've ever heard.

I can remember a drunken conversation, if you could call it that, maybe more of a lecture, from John.  I don't remember what precipitated it.  All I remember clearly is him gripping me by the lapels of my pajama top, shaking me, and telling me, "...you can have a n----- for a friend if you want to, but don't you ever let me catch you kissing a n-----, or fucking a n-----, or I will fuck you up.  I will beat you to within an inch of your miserable life, and then I will cut up your face and make you ugly so no man will ever want you."  No, I'm not kidding.  He made the same threat later, if I ever tried "dope".

Of course, my stepfather was quick to assure you, he was not "prejudiced", and as evidence, went to great pains to introduce me to his black "good friend" Jimmy.  I only saw Jimmy but twice in my whole childhood, but I will never forget their collaboration on the lecture, "Keep The Races Separate, Because Neither Race Will Ever Accept Biracial Children", complete with disgusting beer breath.  Beer on anybody's breath makes me nauseous to this day.

There have been a couple talks around the bonfire at The Community about different types of sexual abuse/assault.  Virtually every one of us women has a story -- stranger rape, date/acquaintance rape, marital rape, sexual abuse/molestation, sexual harassment at work, cat-calls, etc.  Many of us reported multiple types of sexual abuse.  I told my story here and here.  No need to repeat them except to say they do connect back to my stepfather, who molested me from at least age 5 (probably earlier) till age 15, when I unceremoniously ended the abuse by threatening his life.  And meaning it.

My mother and I have been having, during these Covid times, a series of conversations as well.  With my mother near the end of her years, I have been diligently making time for these impromptu klatches.  Subject matter has run the gamut, but almost always at least touches on my stepfather, how difficult life with him was, how he still influences our lives, not much in a good way.  And what forces made him how he was.

One of these talks took place in the car this summer.  I asked my mum if she ever knew what a hardass John's mother was, and related to her how one time I came down from the bathroom in their house, and Grandma went up right after me and came down immediately to berate me about -- TOILET PAPER!  I had committed the grave sin of not ripping the toilet paper cleanly on the perforation, leaving a ragged edge that evidently Grandma thought gave her the right to rip into me.  I didn't see why this was such a big deal, as no one in my life had ever been that anal, but being still a relatively tractable child, I apologized and protested I hadn't committed this apparently grave sin on purpose.  "Yes, but you did do it, didn't you?" snapped Grandma, as if to drive home the notion of my guilt.

"Imagine being raised by THAT!" sniffed my mother.  "If I had known she did that, I'd've ripped it ragged off the perforation every goddamn time!"

"Yeah, well I know how I felt after that one incident.  Wonder if she did that to John?  That kind of raising could really screw a person up.  Maybe it explains a few things."

But the kicker was when my mother explained how Grandma tied my stepfather to a tree.

It seems, Pap being off in the US Navy during World War II, and my stepfather being a normal rambunctious little boy, that Grandma had a hard time keeping track of him, and would sometimes tie him to a tree, apparently for long periods of time.  The irony is that Grandma was never the parent John reported being afraid of.

Oddly, John was terrified of Pap, kicking my mother under the table when she teased him, and directing the nastiest looks my way when I debated Pap on the merits of soccer-style vs. straight-on kickers in the late 70's NFL and NCAA.  My mother told me John confided in her that as a teenager he had slept with a knife under his pillow to protect himself from Pap.  But neither my mother nor I could ever imagine Pap doing anything to harm anyone.  And most abusers are quick to tell you how bad are the children they are raising, and abusing, I guess to rationalize/excuse their abuse.  I had many conversations with Pap as a teenager.  He told me he never understood Grandma having a hard time with John, he never gave Pap any trouble.  It's a mystery.

And where did John learn to molest children?  Was he molested in Catholic school in the 40's and 50's?  Or somewhere else?  God, I'd love to have the answer to that!  It makes me sadder than I thought I'd ever be to think that someone did to John what he did to me.

The clincher was the conversation I had last week with Melissa Pedersen about John.  Because this was where I put everything together and the desire to write this post was born.  Melissa too was sexually abused as a youngster; the difference between her experience and mine was that she was older when her abuse began and her abuser was not a family member, thus she told her parents, was believed, and removed immediately from the situation, whereas my abuse lasted 10 or more years.  Ironically, at one point well into the conversation Melissa made a comment indicating she thought John didn't sound too intellectual.

"Oh, I think he was plenty smart.  He just didn't read well.  My mother and I both remember notes he wrote with letters switched around that make us think he had dyslexia.  I don't think schools were on the ball about dyslexia back then.  John always described himself as a 'dummy'.  That was why he was always all over me about my grades.  He always said he got passed from one grade to the next because they were glad to get rid of him.  But if you talked to him, he had great ideas and opinions that were intelligent and well thought out, even if I didn't agree with most of them.  But he had a lot of trouble expressing himself because he didn't read well or have a good vocabulary."

Melissa replied quietly, "Doesn't sound like he had a great childhood, either."  She didn't amplify the remark, but it made me think.

Here we have a kid whose father is absent for the first few years of his life.  His mother is clearly overwhelmed, and doesn't seem to possess the best parenting skills, and maybe has OCD, among other things.  His father comes home from the military.  They don't seem to bond well, and are never close.  John, for whatever reason, is afraid of him.  He loves his mother, but as my mother has observed, John's mother is rather cold and strict.  And his father is an alcoholic.

He goes to school, where he probably has an undiagnosed learning disability, so of course has no success there.  He is probably therefore made to feel inadequate by either the nuns, his schoolmates or both.  Neither his parents nor his school seem to teach him empathy, social graces or how to relate to people.  He enjoys a few sports, but seems to have no particular talent for any of them. He's not particularly good looking, and if he has any skills or talents, nobody, especially John himself, seems to notice or cultivate them.  Although there is evidence that his parents did put in no small amount of effort to teach him a work ethic, it doesn't seem to "take".  And although he could affect a superficial charm upon occasion, it was nothing he could maintain over a long haul.

And quite possibly, somewhere along the line, somebody molested him.

So he grows up, a big boy who acquires a bit of a swagger, a "macho" attitude that usually doesn't admit vulnerability or deficiency.  (Although I can remember seeing him cry on three occasions -- when my mum and I forgot Father's Day one year; when my mum and I watched Love Boat and Fantasy Island after he went to bed, laughing and talking together, and he felt left out; and the fact that he envied that [he felt] my mother and I were so exponentially better at making friends than he.  Kind of comes across as a sad and lonely man).  Well, if one can't admit he needs help, he's not likely to ask for and receive any, is he?  

He also emulates his father's alcohol addiction.

He does himself no favors, either.  He marries right out of high school, has three children in five years, which is a helluva lot of supporting for a common laborer to do.  Of course, that marriage falls apart after less than eight years.  He moves back home with his parents.  Soon after, he meets my mother, and marries her after a six month engagement, never having lived on his own and taken care of himself.

With Melissa functioning as my sounding board and explicator, we put together a portrait of a guy who probably never had a chance, because very little good, positive effort seems to have been put into him.  Not even when he apparently molested children before me.  Of course, part of this can be attributed to the fact that there was little effective treatment available for most of his conditions at that time -- not alcoholism, dyslexia nor pedophilia.  It's a shame.  He deserves a lot of sympathy because otherwise, he could've been somebody.  Or at very least done a lot less damage.

If he were still alive, John would be 78 years old today.  He passed in 2007.  Not surprising, as his drinking had already begun taking a toll on his health by his early 40's.  He was married to his third wife, Patty, for more than 20 years, perhaps more of a testimony to her than him.  Maybe a case of water seeking, and finding, its own level.  I don't miss him, in all honesty.  I didn't love him.  For my mother's sake, I tolerated him as best as possible, and when they divorced, I was relieved.  And when he died, I told myself, he can't hurt anyone anymore.  For that, I was glad.  For John, I am sorry.  He could've been so much more.  He could have been, and had the right to be, a whole lot happier.  And it's not all his fault he wasn't.  It's not his fault he slipped through so many cracks.

There are a lot of folks just like John out there.  I hope if some of you know one, you'll help them.  If you do, you'll in turn be helping other folks like me, which I would appreciate.

I forgive you, John.  I'm sorry it's taken me this long to look at it all from your perspective.  Happy Birthday.