When I was four, we moved. Far away, to a big house in a tiny town called Colo, Iowa. It was a good move-- for the first couple years.
Mom tried to be a good mom. She read to us at night. Well, mostly I think she was reading to Tammy, the oldest, who was a slow learner because she was born premature, but the rest of us got in on it. Mom read out loud, underlining the words with her finger as she read. It didn't take me long to figure out how she was reading.
The word was "what". It dawned on me that Mom said "what" as her finger passed under a particular clump of print, and if I could find that same clump further down the page, she might say it again. I scanned the page, found another clump like the first, and waited. When she got there, she said it again--"what". Aha!! The clumps all stood for a word, and if I could learn the clumps, then I, too, could read!!
So, at four years old, I tried to memorize each story, then go over it the next day, trying to "read" the story as I remembered it. It worked. I taught myself to read, and somehow the phonics of the letters fell into place for me. It wasn't long before I was reading whatever I could get my hands on: newspapers, magazines, books, the Bible. It became my favorite pastime.
Once I mastered reading, I wanted more. I begged Tammy and Vicky to teach me math. So when they got home from school, we played "school", where they taught me math. I practiced while they were in school, and I got addition and subtraction, but was baffled by multiplication. But I memorized some basic multiplication, even though I didn't get how it worked.
Lonny, who was just one year older than me, was struggling in school. By now, mom was too busy for us kids, so I started helping him with his schoolwork--he needed the help, and I needed to be helpful. Plus, since I had just recently learned it myself, I figured I could teach him how I learned it. It didn't quite work out that way, because he didn't learn the way I did, but we cobbled along together and it became a regular activity-- him settling in to do his homework with me perched next to him, helping him. When the next parent-teacher conference came around with his teacher Mrs. Fickess, she accused mom of doing his work for him. His homework was fine, but his tests were still consistently low. (It should be noted that Lonny was, much later, diagnosed with Dyslexia.) Mom told the Mrs. Fickess that I was the one helping Lonny, not her, and she became outraged that mom would lie to her face like that. Mom said, "Test her if you want-- she really is teaching Lonny." So Mrs. Fickess arranged for me to come to the school one morning and run through a series of tests. She pulled me aside and asked me if I had been helping Lonny, which I answered yes to, and asked me where I learned to read and do math. When the test results came back weeks later, Mrs. Fickess was not happy. She really seemed to hate our family, and I think she was unhappy that her accusations against mom were proved wrong-- I was reading at a 9th grade level and doing 3rd grade math.
Unfortunately, this incident colored the way Mrs. Fickess treated me. When I finally started school, she was my first and second grade teacher. She was cruel to me, singling me out for unjust punishments. She mocked and mimicked me in front of the other kids. When the other kids talked, she would snap at me for it and punish me, even though it was obvious to the whole class it wasn't me. I got in trouble for what the other kids did. And when I went home and told Mom, she wouldn't believe me. I tied to tell dad-- he wouldn't believe me, either. Worse yet, when I got in trouble at school, I got punished at home.
At this point in my life, I hadn't fully realized the concept that all adults are there to let you down, drag you down, hold you back. I hadn't fully experienced it yet, so I still held out hope that good would conquer evil, right would trump wrong. I was wrong.
Shannon and kids
"...and so, neglect becomes our ally."
Tuesday, October 25
Tuesday, November 30
Baby's First..... Christmas? nope-- Blog!
My name is Shannon. I am a mother of four wonderful kids, two wonderful dogs, one wonderful cat, and the wife of a wonderful husband. My life is finally good. But not so for most of my life-- it's been horrendous, painful, end even excruciating at times. As a child, I wished desperately for God to just go ahead and kill me already. So this blog is a journey into the dark depressing times, the elating highs, the trials and triumps. I may meander and babble along the way, but that's okay-- it's my tool for getting out the truth so someday I can explain it to my children. (deep breath) Here goes:
I was born the youngest of four children in South Bend, Indiana. My dad and mom were divorcing, but she says she held off on the final paperwork until I was born so I wouldn't be illegitimate. I remember my mother remarrying when I was a year or two. It was the early '70s and she wore a sunny yellow short dress. He was a big man, handsome like Elvis, but I was afraid of him even back then. The wedding night or shortly after, I heard Mom and my new dad talking behind their closed bedroom door. Suddenly, the door flung open and Mom called me in. I was sure I had done something Dad didn't like, so I reluctantly toddled down the hall and into their room. Mom and Dad were sitting at the head of their bed, Mom on her side and Dad on his. I slowly walked over to the bed, climbed up, and resolutely laid face-down at the foot of the bed, waiting for my spanking which I was sure was coming. Mom laughed and grabbed my ankles, dragging my feet toward her, then flipped me over. She started taking off my pajama bottoms and told me that they were worried I might wet my bed ( I had been potty-trained for a while, so I was rather insulted at this). She dusted my butt with baby powder (oh, how I LOVED that smell!) and put a cloth diaper on me, then the rubber pants that went over the diaper. The rubber pants were too tight around the legs, but I didn't care. I was wearing a diaper! I could pee anytime, anywhere I wanted to. And suprise, suprise, I wasn't in trouble after all! Mom kissed me on my forehead, then sent me off to bed.
I couldn't just go to bed... I had to brag a little. So I wandered into Tammy and Vicky's room to show them. I swung my little butt and swaggered, as if to say, "look what I got!" It worked-- Tammy and Vicky were duly jealous, and wailed, "Hey! How come YOU get a diaper and we don't?" Heh heh. I toddled off to bed, satisfied. But the next morning, I had red swollen welts where the leg elastic was. AND, I didn't pee in the diaper. (Ever have a cold, soggy diaper wrapped around the bottom of your torso? The cold wetness goes up to your stomach and around your sides. It's icky.) So I never got another diaper at bedtime again.
Even though I was scared of Dad, I remember some really good times. We lived close to a park. We also lived close to Aunt Mary (who always had a purse full of candy) and David-- our really cool, totally awesome, fun, handsome, teenage cousin. David let us sit on his lap and steer while he drove. And David let us sip his McDonald's coffee (it was tan and sweet, and Vicky and I swore when we grew up we were going to buy our own tan coffee from McDonalds). Best of all, David would turn the lights down low and put on a singing show just for us. He sang along to Andy Williams (and sounded EXACTLY like him), and other popular songs of the time. My favorite was the inny-noop-noopy song (Good Morning Starshine). Aunt Mary bought us toys and gave us her undivided attention. She had a magical white Christmas tree--it was the most beautiful tree I'd ever seen. And it was decorated with foil-wrapped chocolate ornaments that she would let us pick off and eat. When we went to church, she would sit with us and give us candy from her purse and bring us little dollies to play with. At that time, I never guessed that David HATED his life with Aunt Mary because she was a ruthless and deranged psychopath. I found out for myself later.
My memories also span other good times: going out with Grandma and Grandpa Hardt really late on a Saturday night and bringing home a whole bag of candy to share with my brother and sisters; finding a foil- wrapped chocolate Santa and then going off on an easter egg-like hunt for the rest; playing at the park; finding a "lost" kitten and giving it to Aunt Mary. But it wasn't all good. All four of us kids were afraid of dad. He seemed to be bothered by us more than anything. And Mom wasn't much better. Even so small and young, I was constantly afraid of doing or saying anything wrong. I can clearly remember practicing every new word I learned, alone in my room, before using it in front of Mom and Dad, for fear I would be punished for saying it wrong. I was constantly in fear of being punished-- all four of us kids were. As a result, we were VERY well- behaved, especially in public. Grandpa would defend us, though, so I loved him dearly. Until the darkest chapter so far of my young life.
Grandpa was beaten, robbed, and left for dead one winter night. Shortly after his recovery, he became ill and died. I remember the funeral, everybody crying, especially Dad. I remember having to sit still and quiet for forever. I remember going up to the fancy box that everyone was looking into with Dad. He picked me up so I could see. There was Grandpa, asleep, on some very frilly satiny pillows. But I was bothered by the white pills that were inside his nose. I asked Dad why somebody put aspirin in Grandpa's nose, and couldn't we take them out so he could breathe? Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. Dad started sobbing hard and he swiftly took me back to Mom. (I was sure I would be in trouble for THAT later on.) I was really concerned about the pills still, so I bugged Mom untill she finally let me ask her about them. Then she explained to me that he wasn't breathing anymore, because he was asleep forever and would never wake up. That's when I realized that I was never going to see Grandpa again, or hear him whistling. The one person who cared about me was never coming back. I cried.
Then there was Fritzy. Fritzy was a poodle, a little black thing that Dad brought with him to our house. For some reason, Fritzy didn't like me. I tried to be friends with him, but he always bit me. Mom said he "nipped" me, but I knew a bite when I felt it. I didn't like Fritzy anymore, either. Then, joy of joys, he ran away one day. I was happy he was gone, but worried about him. I didn't want him to get run over, or sleep forever like Grandpa. I hated the thought that he was outside in the rain, cold and miserable. (But glad he wasn't "nipping" me anymore.) It was my 3rd birthday, and he'd been gone over a week. So to make me feel better about losing Fritzy, Mom and Dad gave me a new dog-- Jamie. She was HUGE! Golden colored, taller than me, wider than me, stronger than me. But oh so gentle and sweet. I loved hugging her and just hanging on to her. She always let me. I had to look up into her face, and her slobbery kisses went all over my head and neck, but I didn't mind. She was all mine, and she loved me. And I loved her. I loved bringing her food-- she would get so excited that she could have knocked me down. But she didn't. She loved me. Then we got a phone call. Some guy found Fritzy, and traced him back to us. So Mom went and got him. The little shit was ungrateful to be home, hated me just as much as ever, and was a rotten little thing compared to Jamie. But he also hated Jamie, so Dad decided she had to go. One morning, she wasn't there. She was MY birthday present, and she was gone. I didn't get to say goodbye, I didn't even know it was coming. She was just gone. I cried for days-- alone, in my room. I didn't want to get in trouble for crying in front of Mom and Dad. Especially Dad. I never got another present to replace her.
When Fritzy got hit by a car a couple years later and died, I didn't cry. I went to the curb and touched the garbage bag he was wrapped in, but I didn't cry. I wasn't sorry at all that he was gone. At least this time, he wasn't coming back. Good.
I was born the youngest of four children in South Bend, Indiana. My dad and mom were divorcing, but she says she held off on the final paperwork until I was born so I wouldn't be illegitimate. I remember my mother remarrying when I was a year or two. It was the early '70s and she wore a sunny yellow short dress. He was a big man, handsome like Elvis, but I was afraid of him even back then. The wedding night or shortly after, I heard Mom and my new dad talking behind their closed bedroom door. Suddenly, the door flung open and Mom called me in. I was sure I had done something Dad didn't like, so I reluctantly toddled down the hall and into their room. Mom and Dad were sitting at the head of their bed, Mom on her side and Dad on his. I slowly walked over to the bed, climbed up, and resolutely laid face-down at the foot of the bed, waiting for my spanking which I was sure was coming. Mom laughed and grabbed my ankles, dragging my feet toward her, then flipped me over. She started taking off my pajama bottoms and told me that they were worried I might wet my bed ( I had been potty-trained for a while, so I was rather insulted at this). She dusted my butt with baby powder (oh, how I LOVED that smell!) and put a cloth diaper on me, then the rubber pants that went over the diaper. The rubber pants were too tight around the legs, but I didn't care. I was wearing a diaper! I could pee anytime, anywhere I wanted to. And suprise, suprise, I wasn't in trouble after all! Mom kissed me on my forehead, then sent me off to bed.
I couldn't just go to bed... I had to brag a little. So I wandered into Tammy and Vicky's room to show them. I swung my little butt and swaggered, as if to say, "look what I got!" It worked-- Tammy and Vicky were duly jealous, and wailed, "Hey! How come YOU get a diaper and we don't?" Heh heh. I toddled off to bed, satisfied. But the next morning, I had red swollen welts where the leg elastic was. AND, I didn't pee in the diaper. (Ever have a cold, soggy diaper wrapped around the bottom of your torso? The cold wetness goes up to your stomach and around your sides. It's icky.) So I never got another diaper at bedtime again.
Even though I was scared of Dad, I remember some really good times. We lived close to a park. We also lived close to Aunt Mary (who always had a purse full of candy) and David-- our really cool, totally awesome, fun, handsome, teenage cousin. David let us sit on his lap and steer while he drove. And David let us sip his McDonald's coffee (it was tan and sweet, and Vicky and I swore when we grew up we were going to buy our own tan coffee from McDonalds). Best of all, David would turn the lights down low and put on a singing show just for us. He sang along to Andy Williams (and sounded EXACTLY like him), and other popular songs of the time. My favorite was the inny-noop-noopy song (Good Morning Starshine). Aunt Mary bought us toys and gave us her undivided attention. She had a magical white Christmas tree--it was the most beautiful tree I'd ever seen. And it was decorated with foil-wrapped chocolate ornaments that she would let us pick off and eat. When we went to church, she would sit with us and give us candy from her purse and bring us little dollies to play with. At that time, I never guessed that David HATED his life with Aunt Mary because she was a ruthless and deranged psychopath. I found out for myself later.
My memories also span other good times: going out with Grandma and Grandpa Hardt really late on a Saturday night and bringing home a whole bag of candy to share with my brother and sisters; finding a foil- wrapped chocolate Santa and then going off on an easter egg-like hunt for the rest; playing at the park; finding a "lost" kitten and giving it to Aunt Mary. But it wasn't all good. All four of us kids were afraid of dad. He seemed to be bothered by us more than anything. And Mom wasn't much better. Even so small and young, I was constantly afraid of doing or saying anything wrong. I can clearly remember practicing every new word I learned, alone in my room, before using it in front of Mom and Dad, for fear I would be punished for saying it wrong. I was constantly in fear of being punished-- all four of us kids were. As a result, we were VERY well- behaved, especially in public. Grandpa would defend us, though, so I loved him dearly. Until the darkest chapter so far of my young life.
Grandpa was beaten, robbed, and left for dead one winter night. Shortly after his recovery, he became ill and died. I remember the funeral, everybody crying, especially Dad. I remember having to sit still and quiet for forever. I remember going up to the fancy box that everyone was looking into with Dad. He picked me up so I could see. There was Grandpa, asleep, on some very frilly satiny pillows. But I was bothered by the white pills that were inside his nose. I asked Dad why somebody put aspirin in Grandpa's nose, and couldn't we take them out so he could breathe? Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. Dad started sobbing hard and he swiftly took me back to Mom. (I was sure I would be in trouble for THAT later on.) I was really concerned about the pills still, so I bugged Mom untill she finally let me ask her about them. Then she explained to me that he wasn't breathing anymore, because he was asleep forever and would never wake up. That's when I realized that I was never going to see Grandpa again, or hear him whistling. The one person who cared about me was never coming back. I cried.
Then there was Fritzy. Fritzy was a poodle, a little black thing that Dad brought with him to our house. For some reason, Fritzy didn't like me. I tried to be friends with him, but he always bit me. Mom said he "nipped" me, but I knew a bite when I felt it. I didn't like Fritzy anymore, either. Then, joy of joys, he ran away one day. I was happy he was gone, but worried about him. I didn't want him to get run over, or sleep forever like Grandpa. I hated the thought that he was outside in the rain, cold and miserable. (But glad he wasn't "nipping" me anymore.) It was my 3rd birthday, and he'd been gone over a week. So to make me feel better about losing Fritzy, Mom and Dad gave me a new dog-- Jamie. She was HUGE! Golden colored, taller than me, wider than me, stronger than me. But oh so gentle and sweet. I loved hugging her and just hanging on to her. She always let me. I had to look up into her face, and her slobbery kisses went all over my head and neck, but I didn't mind. She was all mine, and she loved me. And I loved her. I loved bringing her food-- she would get so excited that she could have knocked me down. But she didn't. She loved me. Then we got a phone call. Some guy found Fritzy, and traced him back to us. So Mom went and got him. The little shit was ungrateful to be home, hated me just as much as ever, and was a rotten little thing compared to Jamie. But he also hated Jamie, so Dad decided she had to go. One morning, she wasn't there. She was MY birthday present, and she was gone. I didn't get to say goodbye, I didn't even know it was coming. She was just gone. I cried for days-- alone, in my room. I didn't want to get in trouble for crying in front of Mom and Dad. Especially Dad. I never got another present to replace her.
When Fritzy got hit by a car a couple years later and died, I didn't cry. I went to the curb and touched the garbage bag he was wrapped in, but I didn't cry. I wasn't sorry at all that he was gone. At least this time, he wasn't coming back. Good.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)