Molested as a Teen

There were two times I remember being actually assaulted. I was chubby and jiggled when I walked. I was walking up South McDonough, a tree-lined, shady road that led over the tracks to high school and beyond to the Courthouse in the city center. Clutching my books to my chest, I trudged toward school when I noticed a car parked against the curb a few houses up. I thought nothing of it, even when I noticed that the back door was open. The man sitting in the back spoke to me, and I turned to look at him. At that point I heard him say "want some of this" and there in his lap he was wiggling something pale. I don't think I even knew what he was doing at first. And then I did. I was terrified, panic-stricken, and the street was totally empty. Up ahead was a house I knew where some college professors lived with their small children. Could I got to their house? But as I approached it, I realized, no, they are probably at work. No one is likely home. I just kept walking. And walking. And nothing happened.

So by the time I got to school, where I had no friends, knew practically nobody, had no one to confide in, I said nothing to anyone about it. Double sessions meant that we were always in a hurry to the next class, and the only time anyone spoke to me was to ask to borrow homework. I was known for being "a brain" because I spoke up in class. And the gossip, of course. How little I understood how much gossip was going between kids, their parents, the school secretaries and teachers. Clearly whatever had scared me didn't show on my face.

When I got home from school, my mother was there. I actually thought that telling her about the scary man might make me feel better. Ha. When she realized this had happened in the morning on the way to school, she was just furious at me. And that was the end of that. And pretty much the end of my willingness to talk to her about any feelings I might have or any questions or worries. She just got mad about everything usually, and trying to avoid upsetting her was the behavior I had learned.

My grandfather began a weekly ritual in order to try to help out Mother with her duties, he would take the family out to eat at Davis Bros. Cafeteria. For us, dinner around the dining room table every night was the norm; Daddy, Mother, Granddaddy, and all 4 of us kids, staring at each other. Mother made a big effort to provide meat and 2 vegs with salad and dessert every single day of the world. Most days I would try not to say anything that would upset a grownup, but every once in a while, I tried expressing an idea. Whatever I thought, this was unwelcome and a cause for rejection and disagreement of at least one and usually both parents. My memory of dinner conversation was "hands on the table!" from my father, and "what did you have for lunch?" from Mother.

So now, once a week, we would pile into the station wagon and drive the few blocks to downtown where the cafeteria rested under the bank building. We got to choose our own dinner, under supervision, which means only one dessert and at least one vegetable. This was fine, and we would eat, remember to say "Thank you, Granddaddy. May I be excused?" At that point, for probably not more than ten or fifteen minutes, the four of us roamed freely in the dark, empty bank building and grounds, and riding the elevator. There there was a lone security guard, and this little fat man rarely said anything to us.

But one evening, I got separated from the others, and was alone when the guard stepped onto the elevator with me. To this day I cannot understand my own reactions to him. He turned to me and said, "Can I kiss you?" I guess I thought he was a genial grandfatherly type who wanted to peck my cheek. So I must have nodded or said "okay." He started kissing me on the mouth (ugh!) and said "give me your tongue" (yuck! No!). Then his hand started groping my privates and I pulled away. I said no words to him, but I may have whimpered.

The elevator reached the ground floor and opened, and I ran outside to find the whole family assembled. "What happened? Where were you?" I heard over and over. I remember saying nothing. I am certain my face expressed distress. I was so ashamed and scared to have got in such a horrible, nasty situation with that stranger. This incident was never discussed again. Did we even go back to the cafeteria again? I don't know.

After a few years, Granddaddy chose to give up his ground floor bedroom, and move to the garage apartment, leaving the entire 4-bedroom, 3-kitchen, 3 bath house to us. By the time I moved into the best bedroom, Granddaddy's formerly, I was so depressed and confused, I chose to paint the room gray. Of course I didn't go and choose the paint chips myself, and so the colors were wrong, so wrong. But the kindly house painter chose pink for the interior of the closets, just to cheer it up. It was horrid.

Abortion

I was Mother's second child but her first, too. My mother had an abortion during the war when the mother's bf was transferred far away and they didn't get married. At least he paid for the expensive abortion. The figure of $400 comes to mind, but it may not be part of that story. And Mother was still able to have more children. Specifically me, my two brothers and my sister, after she met and married a US Marine. She often said that they were each others' "last chance."

I was really lucky that my mother's illegal abortion was safe enough for her to get married years later and have me and my brothers and sister. I was also lucky enough to have a legal, safe abortion myself, even though I had to travel to NYC from Atlanta to get it. Once the Supreme Court handed down Roe v Wade, I thought that settled the issue. Apparently we are still under attack from misguided and apparently angry people, who seem to lack understanding and compassion. Those people seem to control many politicians, mostly white males, who have no compassion and are actively seeking to deny women control over their own bodies and choices. This makes me sad, angry and scared.

If I lived in one of those backward, poor, heavily religious countries where women are still enslaved and without basic human rights, I believe I would just put down my head and try to survive. I am no Malala, I am no Mother Theresa, I am not a hero. But I hope that there are ways I can reach out to women in my own country and in other countries and try to help them gain and hold onto their basic rights over their own bodies. Health care has been defined as a basic right by the United Nations. This is true, and I want to help.

I, too, was in the New Left in the late 60s and early 70s. I had married a fellow who had a couple of friends. I think they told me they had come south, not with the Freedom Riders that CORE organized, but later, to participate in a strike at the Farrah textile plant up in Blue Ridge, GA. Everyone got fired, and the plant closed. They were not the Catholic or Quakers or interested in non-violent resistance. In fact, I don't know what they were doing, except when something would get started, like the underground newspaper, The Great Speckled Bird, they would be around, maybe participating. I really enjoyed working with The Bird, although I didn't do that much. It was all volunteer for me, and I didn't take it very seriously. I was doing a lot of drugs, but I was not on a religious or spiritual journey, not seeking my awakening.

And then I got pregnant on the IUD. I was having sex with a number of random strangers ("free love") and also with my husband's friend HJ. I assumed it was HJ's baby. With the material and emotional help of many women in my small community, I went for an abortion in NYC. My husband's family, his uncle in NYC and his parents back in Atlanta, also gathered around in non-judgmental support. Today I look back at my lack of gratitude toward all of them. Opportunities missed.

The abortion itself was probably unnecessary, as the IUD had compromised my pregnancy. But I wrote about the experience (and drew an illustrated headline) in Atlanta's underground paper, The Great Speckled Bird. Then my sister showed the article to my parents. I didn't even know she read the Bird.

And that is how I learned that my mother had an abortion in Washington DC during WW2. Not from my mother, oh no! My sister told me what she had told my parents, and then told me about Mother's abortion. Mother told Cayce, not me. Cayce, not Mother, told me. I never spoke about abortion with my mother, and later in my life, she became a fanatical anti-abortion donor. She wore a pin and sent money to religious organizations. 

Today I contemplate her terror and loneliness, and my own, in spite of the support of my friends. I think, in spite of my anger at her, that this shared experience brought us closer or at least opened the door to it. I admit I was slow to grasp the opportunity. I imagine that Gran's reaction to Mother's tragedy was not as accepting. But it has taken me this many decades to see that.

I Am Born

Once upon a time a little girl was born. I was the second child but the first, too. My mother had an abortion during the war when the mother's bf was transferred far away and they didn't get married. At least he paid for the expensive abortion. The figure of $400 comes to mind, but it may not be part of that story. And Mother was still able to have more children. Specifically me, after she met and married a US Marine. She often said that they were each others' "last chance."

The little girl had a toy bunny she named Bob-bee. If Bob-bee could not be found at bedtime, there was a lot of trouble. One time I threw up on Mother & Daddy's bed and on Bob-bee. It was a mess.

When Mother was pregnant with my baby sister, she was mad a lot. One time I "ran away" next door to my Grandma's. My Grandma loved me! But she would not let me stay, and I had to go home. When I got home, my mother had put both my brothers in my bed. She told me I had left so I didn't have a bed or a home anymore. Did I want to come back? That was a sad time. But she took them out and I got into bed. She was still mad with me (why I ran away) and I was mad with her, too. And very sad.

I remember Mother looking huge and enormous, sailing up and down the hallway in a green polka dot house coat. She was scary like a dragon. She was mad a lot. It was good to hide and not make any noise. She got mad when I asked questions about the baby coming, and later she got mad after Cayce came and I wanted to pet her and watch her. Her belly button (Cayce's) was all crusty and brown. I was not allowed to touch. I was not supposed to ask questions about babies or tummies or snot (mucus) or anything. I had so many questions, but they all made Mother mad.

Another time my Granny, mother's mother, was visiting and it was baby Rick's birthday. Mother decided to grill out on the front walk. (why?) It was rainy October day, and Mother was getting madder and madder at everyone. She sent the birthday boy into the house for doing something. Then she sent me in, too. When I got inside, Rick was slamming the hall door, which had lots of glass panes, over and over because he was angry. Open, slam! Open, slam! I found that annoying but was also scary because the glass could break. So I told him and told him to stop. But he didn't. So I held out my hand and shouted No you don't! and the door slammed on my hand right up to my armpit.

I remember waking up at the hospital and doctors hovering and talking nice to me. I guess they said they pulled pieces of glass out of my arm. They stitched me up, but it didn't hurt. It felt cold. Mother may have said they left glass inside. We went home, but the blood started again and Mother got upset and called. I don't remember if we went back. I held towels under my arm to catch the blood.

Sometimes she let me roller skate inside in the hallway. Now I know that was bad, but then it was just fun, a relief from the mad, sad and scared times.

I remember when Daddy came home (at last!) to that house. He came in the house and down the hall (past the infamous doorway) and he was wearing his "Major Hat." He was smiling and smiling. He picked me up and hugged me. It was wonderful to be hugged by my Daddy. But he did not want to talk about the hat or where he had been or answer my questions. Was he mad, too? He had to put me down to talk to Mother. And he stopped smiling.