The Truth Will Set You Free

A son shows his father's strength and wit through his own.  Every son's father worries, therefore, that his progeny will not be strong, smart or simply 'good' enough to mirror him.  My father had two sons.  Gary, his first son, was born long and lean and incredibly easy to please.  One year and two months later, David was born.  Dave was a tiny, five-pound ball of fire--as stubborn as an angry drunk in a bar.  I think my father felt an immediate need to strengthen and mold tiny David--named for the mighty King of Israel--otherwise, people may think the father 'small' and weak like the son.

So young did his training begin that as an infant, he left an impression of his will on my mother that she sees vividly to this day and Dave is now 44.  In my father's quest for knowledge of how to raise a perfect child, he came across a Native American technique for stopping a crying baby by stuffing a cloth into his mouth.  He waited for his diminutive son to cry, which didn't take long, and promptly stuffed a washcloth into his mouth.  My mother reports that Dave immediately stopped crying and looked at his enormous father with a a glare that sent chills through his 6 foot, 200 pound frame.  I believe it was at this moment that my father began to look at Dave as a challenge.  He no longer wanted to shape him, but to break him. And break him he tried for the next thirteen years.

All of us were punished with much more severity than any other child we ever knew (unfortunately we didn't know Dave Pelzer), but no one endured punishments like Dave.  As a toddler he was 'dried' in a clothes dryer for bed-wetting; he was slapped, punched, beaten with belt buckles, canes, brooms, whatever was in reach that Dad thought would make an impact.  His head was continually flushed in the toilet when he once puked on the floor due to a punch in the stomach (of course by Dad) after dinner.  This was to teach him where puke belonged (as if he could have said, "Could you stop punching me for a sec Dad, I feel a puke coming on from that last punch and I'd like to let it out where it belongs--in the toilet.").

When Dad wasn't mad a t him, he'd give him 'challenges' to prove how tough he was.  These challenges included pulling eggs from boiling water, being tied up with a multi-knotted rope and left alone for however long it took to free himself, or attaching as many clothespins as possible to his body (we all actually played this fun game).  Dave actually enjoyed proving himself with feats such as these as he never once failed to have the ability to execute one.  No matter how tightly he was tied up or how much pain was involved, Dave would never quit until his task was complete.  Grievously, this just created more of a challenge for Dad.

Beatings and exploits became more and more severe as the years passed, with Dave rising above each and every one.  My father succeeded not only in creating a son that mirrored his strength but, as he was soon to discover, surpassed it.

The defining moment came late one particular night after Dave, now 13 years old, came home from an evening at his friend's house.  I don't recall the reason, but there had been an attempt made to locate my brother.  Dad had Dory (he never did the legwork if it meant dealing with the outside world) call him at his friend Kevin's house.  Kevin had a brother named Dave who, apparently, was out that night and when a call was made for 'Dave', Kevin's sister told the caller (Dory) that Dave wasn't there.  Dad, now believing that his son lied to him--the greatest offense one could commit with Dad--stewed for hours in his anger and his Jack Daniels for my unfortunate, unsuspecting brother's return.

Interrogations were common with Dad.  Before he began, he made sure he knew the 'truth'--his truth, which was very rarely the real truth.  When the beating began, we had to figure out the 'truth', tell it, and stop the beating.  Dory, Gary and I did it that way anyway.  Dave stood his ground.  Dad would not make him lie, damn it.  So for hours that night, Dave was kicked in the shins with heavy boots.  He was kicked until Dad's legs got tired of kicking at which point a broomhandle was used to demolish the bones in his young son's legs.  When his bloody, flesh-exp0osed legs would give out and he'd fall to the floor, he would drag himself back up with a renewed sense of strength.  As Dave claims, he finally 'won'.  Dad, exhausted and utterly defeated, sent him to bed.

The next day, my father presented Dave with a mini poster which read, "The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable."  It depicted a rag doll that had been wrung through a wringer.  I wonder if Dad ever realized that poster referred to him.  I don't think he enjoyed hurting us (okay, maybe he did a little) but he was really just trying to produce perfect children.  He fell terribly short here where his mission was to raise truthful children, he actually created liars.  We learned to lie for our safety.  Except Dave.  He won that day.  He won for all four of us.  It was a small victory for which he paid one hell of a price.

The years of lies are rocks both large and small that I struggle to pass as I make my way along. The memory of the sound of the broom handle hitting Dave's legs and the sight of the wounds it left, though, are almost mountainous and dammable in my brook.  But I'm pretty stealthy--I can maneuver around, over or under just about anything.  Or maybe I could just lie my way through...

Jen ;-)

Accident?

Gary and Dave's bedroom was directly across the hall from mine.  How I envied them and their possession of one another.  I loved being in their room for any reason (they had exercise equipment, tons of music cassettes with a stereo, model airplanes, cool artwork, always new, exciting things to explore) and would weasel my way in any occasion I could think of.  To actually be invited or wanted in there was generally only a dream.

It was the summer before I started the 3rd grade.  You can imagine my joy and surprise when Dave actually agreed to play with me one afternoon (Gary must have been busy somewhere else in the house because it was just Dave and I).  We played school.  Innocent enough.

I sat on a barbell anchored by large weights on either end, on a braided rug in front of their dresser--this was their workout area.  Physical fitness was stressed so strongly by Dad that the boys tried to improve their physique every chance they got.  This meant an entire weight set with benches and accessories in their room.  So there we sat, the barbell and I, cushioned by the multicolored rug--Dave standing in front of me as the teacher and I, the student. 

I sat as a good student would--being punished for an imaginary misbehavior.  I continued my obedience as Dave pointed his bb pistol an inch or so from the bridge of my nose (I think I remember it actually touching my nose).  I thought it was his idea of how a teacher would threaten a misbehaving child, so I sat perfectly still, waiting for him to deem my behavior worthy of playing again.  I guess my behavior was still not satisfying to him so he pulled the trigger.

I remember next only my shock and pain.  And Dave's fear.  "Tell Dad you walked into a nail" was plead over and over to me above my dramatic screams (of course there were no parents home at the time).  This was semi-believable in our century old, always under construction house.  But a mixture of fear at being caught lying and a guilty desire for vengeance made me respond to Dad's questioning later that evening when he finally noticed the round, bloody sore at the top of my nose, with Dave's suggestion followed by a question mark--"I walked into a nail?", pretty much knowing that it wouldn't be accepted.

When I told Dad the truth after a couple more tries at the nail story, I ended it with an emphatic, "he didn't think it was loaded" and "we were playing, it was an accident."  As the words escaped my lips I felt the acid build in my stomach at the thought of Dave's punishment.  I immediately regretted my words and my greedy desire for vengeance.  I wished I could suck the words back in and start over from the beginning when I walked by Dad with my head turned away to hide the wound.  I wished I had played klutzy little girl who walks into walls.  I could've pulled it off if I tried.

What was done was done--I think it's the only time I ever saw fear on Dad's face rather than anger.  He sent me upstairs to my room where Dave and I waited at least a thousand years until his booming voice hollared, "DRJYEN--A!"  Whenever he yelled a name in anger we would all look at each other and try to decide whose name had been called, this time we decided it sounded more like 'Jennifer' than 'David', so down I ran.  If ever we were wrong about which name had been called Dad would just send us back for the proper recipient of his wrath.  But this time we were right.

With acid in my stomach enough now to eat through a concrete wall, I faced Dad at attention.  I was ordered to hold out my hands, palms up, and receive 10 belt slaps, of which I would keep count.  Only 10 was very exciting, I could probably even do this without trying too hard not to pull my hands back.  I held them out strongly and counted loud and clear, assuming I was being punished for ratting my brother, and feeling as though I deserved it because I knew his punishment would be much worse.

When he finished I was informed that I was punished for "being stupid enough to sit still while someone pointed a gun in (my) face."  Did I understand--this was standard after anything Dad said--he had to be sure he was understood.  I did, and so said, "yes" and was sent back upstairs to "send David down."  My heart sank as I caught sight of Dad's huge ball-peen hammer (or maybe it was a sledge hammer, I just remember a large scary hammer) on the coffee table.

As I raced upstairs I thought of how we could escape down the back stairway, through the kitchen and out the back door.  Dave, of course, wouldn't hear it--he marched bravely (or stubbornly, I could never tell which--or both) down to face Goliath.  After a short period of questioning that no matter how much I strained my ears I could not hear, he was back upstairs retrieving the guilty pistol.

My mind raced--would Dad shoot him with it?  Beat him with the hammer?  The possibilities were endless with Dad, a pistol, and a hammer.  I shuddered, felt as if I would puke, then began to cry as I heard the hammer followed by shattering.  I hated myself for telling.  I was stupid  and selfish and weak. Why did I tell him?

I crawled into my bed and covered my head with my pillow and blankets and any stuffed animals I could find.

Finally Dave came back upstairs and I ran across the hall to him.  He never showed any emotion--no negative emotion anyway.  He looked okay--no blood or marks that I could see, but that didn't mean anything because Dad was a pro at knowing how to hurt us without leaving marks, that's why he loved stomachs and palms--they are tough to bruise.  I asked him what happened and he simply told me that Dad smashed his gun.  That's it.  I still don't know if he was being tough or protecting me or protecting himself by not telling me more.  Or maybe he was hating me as much as I was hating myself.  Or maybe he was wondering why that bb pellet didn't kill me.  Or maybe there really wasn't any more.  But I doubt it.  Dave was always such a damned tough kid.  Even if he was hurt, he'd never tell.

Being shot was a melodious rock in my brook.   Dave sometimes was a rock that I'd try to understand as I passed its awkward shape, sometimes a current, or even a stream feeding into mine making it doubly strong for a bit.

Jen ;-)

21 Frear Ave

We moved in the summer before I was to start 3rd grade.  I had a little time to get used to the new house on Frear Ave and the new neighborhood before school started.  Frear Ave was a small, dead-end street.  The houses numbered 1 (our house) to 22 ( the Callahans) then there were woods beyond 22.  Actually there were two houses beyond the Callahan's on the same side of the street: the Harts and the O'Riellys but you couldn't see them unless you went down into the woods a bit, so I don't really count them. 

Almost every house on the street had children.  They would gather in the center of the road and play kickball or wiffleball.  I first met the majority of them when they noticed me watching a game and asked if I wanted to play.  I couldn't look too eager, but, well, yeah, of course I wanted to play so I trotted on over.  The games were very organized--with teams, bases, outs, runs--and I don't recall anyone ever fighting or even being unkind.  It was a dream come true for me--unlimited friends.  Nice friends.  I do believe it was all that made my years on Frear Ave. tolerable because this time period was the absolute craziest Dad ever was.  And I don't mean crazy,fun, I mean crazy, insane.

My very first friend--solo friend, outside of the street games--was Karen.  She was two years older than me, smart, funny, nice, and more interesting than any child I had ever known.  She was wise well beyond her years--always.  I was in awe of her.  Shortly after becoming friends we decided we would build a fort in the woods behind her house--did I mention she was tough too? (she lived in #21, the last house on my side of the street).  We gathered wood.  I believe that's as far as it got.  We continued to talk about it for quite a while.  She was best friends with Tricia Callahan (the last house on the other side of the street).  One day after the three of us were finished playing at Tricia's (she had the coolest playhouse behind her house--it was a real, tiny house that her dad built), we walked across the street to Karen's house.  I hadn't met her family yet.  As we were leaving to go out again, her younger sister Kim asked to come with us and Karen and Tricia told her no.  She began to cry.  We left and they said she was a 'cry baby' and to ignore her.  I don't remember if I went back right then or later but that was it.  She became my best friend.  We were so alike in our emotions--both so very sensitive (I was called cry baby by my siblings quite often as well), but so different in personality.

Kim was quiet and shy.  I was outgoing and sometimes a bit overbearing.  She was honest and I had learned to lie to stay alive.  She never understood any reason for lying--it drove me crazy because she would tell Dad the truth about things I previously lied about.  But I admired her for it.  She got me into some trouble at times but I knew she couldn't help it.  I think we balanced each other out well.

As much as Kim and I were opposites, her family and mine were just as much so.  She had a loving mother who often said "I love you"--I never heard those words, they were for sissies.  Her mother and step-father would stop what they were doing at any given moment and hug each other--real, loving, embraces that made me a bit uncomfortable because I never witnessed anything like it. The closest I ever experienced to that was a hug good-night that I would force upon my standoffish family members.  They hated it and I knew it but I needed it just the same.  Kim's mom would hug me.  Without being forced to--just because she liked me.  It was a beautiful feeling.  It was a beautiful home.

At our house food had to be spicy, sour, or just taste bad to be acceptable.  For instance, we never used mayonnaise or ketchup--sissy stuff.  Our condiments were hot mustard or horseradish.  Liver, sardines, melba toast, and gefilte fish are some memorable foods that were plentiful in our home.  Even ice cream couldn't be plain, it had to be pistachio or rocky road--I loved just plain strawberry or coffee but no, that wouldn't do--too plain, it must be for sissies too.  Kim's house--soft, white bread, sandwiches with mayo, hot dogs with ketchup, neopolitan ice cream.  I loved to eat there.  No one cared how much or little I ate, or if I scraped my fork on my teeth (that was an instant backhand from Dad if he heard it), or if I spoke.  There was no tension, ever, in their home.  I loved going there and it's no surprise that I spent a good deal 1977 through 1982 there.  Kim and I grew from little girls to young teens together.  I had many other friends but Kim and her family were always the people I chose to be with whenever I had a choice.

I may be going out on a limb here but I think those years with them saved my life--a very strong current pushing me past all the rocks piling up from home.

Jen ;-)