Confrontation

Hello, my name is ____________.  I am afraid of confrontation.  It is, unfortunately, a source of anxiety for a victim of domestic violence.  I have so many angry faces from so many incidents in my head that I've done a good job of blocking whole chunks of time out of my mind so I could have peace today.


If you have been reading my blogs, so far you've learned a little about me.  You know that I have difficulty expressing the pain I feel from being rejected as a baby.  My parents, unfortunately for me, I feel, looked at me as "the problem".  Plain and simple truth, it hurts.  There's not a darn thing that I can do about it.  No one can go back and change it.  I learned some behaviors that became my survival skills and once I became good and surviving, I learned how to get around them.


Recently I was speaking with my pastor about an incident, the incident, that drove me past them and underground.  By the time I was 17, being driven (an understatement) to get out of that house, (picture a slightly better version of the house that "Jenny" grew up in the movie "Forrest Gump").  Please don't get me wrong, I appreciated the roof over my head, but by then it was my prison.  By the time I was 17, I had graduated high school and was in my first year of college.  I was studying pre-law, because my mother had given me a choice the year before.


She came into my room one day and gave me a couple of brochures.  (When I was 8, she told me I probably wouldn't be good at math because she wasn't, and well, she was the brains of the family, so I'd better get used to it.)  She handed them to me and said, "Well, here you go...".  I asked her what they were.  She said, "These brochures are for John Marshall Law School.  You have expensive tastes and you like to argue, so...and you're not good enough at math...so here you go.  There's your career."  I apparently had no choice.


When I argued that I wanted to do something with writing or art, she told me that I wouldn't make any money at "that".  So I graduated a year early and started to take the prereqs for law school.  I worked 2 part-time jobs and went to school while my friends were enjoying their senior year of high school.  Can you sense my unhappiness?


Meanwhile, I had friends-older friends and friends out of town.  I knew enough people then that if I wanted to disappear, I might have a chance.  I tried, unsuccessfully several times before.  I kept my eye on that brass ring, however, and put my nose to the grindstone and worked and worked. One day in early April, I stopped by one friends house after work.  We liked to stay up late and play cards and drink beer.  There were a bunch of us there that night, and I had so much fun that I forgot myself and decided to spend the night and drive my car back in the morning.  


Bad idea.  Even though I told my mom where I'd be, apparently they weren't too happy because when I got home at 8 the next morning, they were up.


Mom was getting ready for work and in the bathroom.  I went upstairs to tell her I fell asleep at my friends house.  In the bathroom walks my dad.  He was furious.  He starts beating me about the head, and I back up into the bathtub, all the while he's beating on my head.  I cry out to my mom for help, and she just continues to fix her hair.  When his anger was satisfied, he left the bathroom and I picked myself up and went into my room and cried.


I was no longer safe here, I thought.  My brothers were still  young, and they were sleeping soundly in there rooms.  My dad left the house.  I went downstairs, after I packed my bag, and told my mom I would be in touch, when I felt safe.  She looked at me like I was crazy, but I had made up my mind.  I was leaving and I wasn't coming back.  She looked worried but I assured her everything would be fine.  So when she went to work and my dad came back and started working in the garage, I snuck out the back door with my bag.


I saw him later that day, driving by, but that was the last time I saw him for over 2 months.  The irony is, I was living less than 2 blocks from them most of the time.  I was able to disappear underground right in my own neighborhood.


They separated a few weeks later.  I got a call from a family friend one day, asking me to call another family member, who asked if I could take care of my brothers and my mother because they needed me.  I came out of hiding for them.  The next time I saw my dad, we were on a recon mission to get their clothes.  That's around the time I found out he cashed my checks worth a couple of grand-suck suck suck suck suck, he sucked.  I ate peanut butter and jelly for 2 weeks.  I didn't have a pot to piss in then, he took all that I had.  I resented him for that.


The next time I saw him, face to face was when he was holding the steering wheel on my mom's car and jamming the gear shifter so she couldn't leave.  My brothers were in the car, and they were in the middle of the street.  I was in another car, facing the other direction.  Against their wishes, I got out of the car, mustered up all that I could, and walked towards them.  I grabbed my dad's arm and he turned to me, going to strike me, but then he realized all the neighbors were watching, so he put his arm down.  Then, like Celie in The Color Purple, I raised my arm and I pushed him back and yelled at him, "You leave my mother alone!".  He just looked at me stunned and my mother used that time to take off and I calmly walked back to the other car and we left.  It was one of my moments.  I still shake to write it, because I've never written it down before.


Ever since then, I've been able to find that inner courage, somewhere...but I didn't know enough then to keep me out of trouble, but that's another story.


I've never been good at confrontation, but I can stand up for what I believe now, even through my fear.  It's taken a lot of courage to do this, and in the end I'm stronger for it, but, alas, I still have my old friend fear.  It's like the friend you don't want, like your period.  Hey friend!  Sigh.  One day at a time.  


It's why I feel so strongly about writing this blog.  Fear has been holding me back from writing it.  Fear of confronting my past because I spent so much time just trying to forget.  That's why I admire Jesus, Beauty Turner and that fictional Dos Equis guy--they got over it.  Imagine the fear that Jesus must have felt when he was sweating blood the day they came to take him away, yet he still calmly walked up and did what he had to do.  Truly, truly worthy of our respect.  Thanks for doing that for me Jesus.

Mr. Dick, Mr. Wonderful, Johnnie, or Johnny...Whatever you call him, he's Trouble

My lovely cat Nermal died in February of 2002, perched in his spot at the window, waiting for me to drive up and park the car like I always did.  I had 3 cats then, Nermal and Trouble, the boys and Xena, the girl kittie.  Her name was Xena Warrior Princess actually, because of her small stature that contrasted her large fighting spirit.  Xena took no gruff from the big boys, and they respected her for that.  


Nermal was my little kid, very loving, always wanting attention, always at my side.  When I would wake up some mornings, Nermal would work his way up from laying by my side to laying on my pillow.  Some mornings I woke up to Nermal's hair tickling my nose, he would wiggle so close.  


Trouble Bubbies was my big guy, part tabby, part Maine Coon cat.  He was my watchdog and the leader of the pack, always wanted to be outside.  They were all fixed and had their shots so I didn't worry.  They stayed around the house well enough.  Xena came to me because one of my brothers' friends couldn't take care of Xena while she was in jail, and because she wasn't being cared for properly, I wouldn't give her back to the young woman after I nursed the poor thing back to health.  Xena was neglected and hungry, and I mean hungry in every way.  Nermal was the creamy center between the two oreo cookies  that made it work I would say.  We all got along fine.


It was one of the saddest days in my life the day my brother and I buried Nermal in the backyard next to Cisco.  I cried for days over the fact that Nermal died waiting for me to come home. 


I was sad for a couple of weeks. I needed to get out so I started hangin' out at a place called The Pelican Roost along the Kankakee River.  The bar offered free local entertainment on Friday and Saturday nights and I liked the atmosphere so I made it my "go to" place.  


Previously I spent 8 years in my 30s (out of choice) celibate and alone (another blog).   In the 80s and the first 3 years of the 90s, when I would choose a guy to "get to know", I would usually be drawn to the same type of guy.  He would be the best looking, with dark hair with a handsome face and a nice body.  He had to be chiseled, hot, and the other girls had to want him.  There was such a specimen at The Pelican Roost at the time.  Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you the other part of the equation for me, he had to be the alpha male, he had to be a challenge.  For me, part of the fun was the challenge.  Once I walked up to an Italian stallion in a 50s-themed bar on toga night, whispered something in his ear, and left with him.  Whew, honey!


Check and check.  The guy was the muscle for the bar, the bouncer.  I used my usual weapons and before you know it, well, you get the idea.  The guy, surprise, surprise, turns out to be an a-hole.  I could always pick 'em.  Hindsight is 20/20, lol.


I start going to another bar.  This bar is not as good for me, but good enough.  A couple of weeks passed.  One night, when it's finally getting to be comfortable, in walks the a-hole with not 1 but 2 girls on his arms.  He walks right up next to me and orders drinks for them all.  I got up, walked out the back door and there's 2 guys standing there, tall and good-looking, talking to the owner of the bar.  Never one to be intimated by any of that, I say to the one, "Hey, I need some help in there,...are you guys busy?"  That was the start of it.  I "hired" them to be my eye candy for the evening, walking back in with them and buying them a drink.


The two of them come in with me, the place was hopping and crowded that night,  and we grew comfortable hanging out together  Before you knew it, I gave the one guy I liked my phone number, not Mr. Dick, but the other guy.


Have to go now...More later...

Surrender

I am going to preface this with the comment that I am open to "second sight".  


Many years ago, a survival skill I learned was control.  In order to survive in a place where I never knew what to expect, I learned to expect the worst.  When the worst came, I wasn't disappointed.  You see, before then, I was surprised when the worst happened.  I was surprised when a large hand would strike my small cheek.  It hurt more than just my cheek.  I felt vulnerable when I didn't expect to get hit and then I would get hit about the head.  It was always my head.  Time went on, and as I trusted them to take care of me less and less, I learned about control.  Control was necessary to keep me safe.  As my former therapist would say, what kept me alive then has now become a hindrance.  At the time, I knew this intellectually but didn't quite feel it.  I wasn't ready to let go.


A couple of years ago I had a disturbing dream.  In the dream, I was standing and talking to someone (another mother) by a pool, while the kids were running around playing on the grass.  My kid came up to me and was hiding behind me in order to avoid being tagged.  The other kid came up and excitedly pushed on my kid just enough as to cause her to plunge backwards into the pool.  I then turned to the kid and asked him what he did that for and then dove into the pool to fetch my kid out.  I woke up then, terrified.  The feeling wouldn't leave me for days and finally, out of desparation, I started calling everyone I knew and asked them to pray for my daughter's safety.  It worried me for a week.  I wanted to do something, anything to see the outcome.


When I was 16, I taught swimming lessons to younger kids.  One day, when none of the adults were paying attention, my 3 year old brother jumped into the deep end of the pool and was at the bottom of the pool when I spotted him.  I jumped in to fish him out and got the water out of his lungs, and luckily, he was ok.


I didn't get the same feeling about what happened with my daughter.  I didn't feel like I was able to save her from getting hurt.  That's what really bothered me.  I wanted to save her but couldn't.


Flash forward to today.   My daughter takes karate classes at a local martial arts school.  A couple of months ago, a boy started in the class, and he has Asperger's Syndrome.  It's a type of obsessive/compulsive behavior disorder, when you can't break a pattern.  Gee, sounds like an issue I can relate to. I realize, after spending some time around these people, that they are the people that I saw in this dream by the pool.  Very strange.  I was weirded out for a couple of minutes, but that's the serendipitous part of this thing.  When speaking with the boy's grandfather, I realize that the boy wasn't something or someone I should fear, he's just a little boy.


Well, I had two choices.  Either I could try to control the outcome of the perceived danger, which really isn't a choice, the same issue will rear it's ugly head again later, or trust. 


Trust.  I had to think about that one for a while.  God showed me something (as I feel I am blessed).  A couple of years ago I was afraid-afraid of losing my daughter, afraid something terrible could happen to her, afraid that I couldn't save her.  Now, I am not afraid.  Today, when I realized that it was the boy in my kid's class that I saw in my dream, I didn't feel panic.  Sure, at first, as old habits die hard, I thought of fleeing.  But then I realized, this boy has no control over his impulses, and I could keep my daughter safe by avoiding that situation, and keeping an extra eye out.  That's all any of us can do.  We can't keep our children safe from what happens to them in the world.  We have to trust that God will keep our children safe, that he has them in the palm of his hand.  


Today, I learned what "let go and let God" means.  He's not going to let me down.  He wanted to show me the difference between living afraid and living in the peace of trusting in Him.  It's not something that I can do easily, but it's a start.

Star

On a beautiful summer day in 1972, when I was a young girl, I was sitting under a tree, enjoying the breeze, watching the other campers as they were busying themselves with camp-type activities, content to "do nothing".  It was a Friday, and that meant we had some time to ourselves on the grounds of the Riverside Day Camp.  Mr. Vohaska had it set up so that every other Friday, at 2:00, we would either have a cookout at the forest preserve nearby or we would meet back at the campgrounds of Riverside, where the Vohaska's had stations set up.  Outside they offered crafts, sports, hiking and the like.  Inside the main building they had records and dancing and refreshments.  To a kid, it was like being at the carnival, only you could do whatever you wanted and it didn't entail asking your parents for money.  It was awesome.

That Friday, I was tired, and just wanted to chill out under the cool trees that were scattered throughout the yard.  I was alone and didn't mind.  A girl walked up and smiled at me.  I smiled back.  She asked if she could sit down and wanted to know what I was doing.  I lazily told her that I just wanted to relax in the cool breeze.  She understood.  It had been a hot week.  We had activities every day, and as kids will get, we were plain tuckered out from all the runnin' around.

She introduced herself as Star.  I introduced myself.  I asked her about her name, I remember, but not what she responded.  She was feeling laid-back like me.  When it was time to go home, we said we'd meet up again on Monday, and I left that day, happy to make a new friend.

The following week we became buddies, doing the things kids do.  She taught me how to catch frogs.  At first I was hesitant, being a girl and all, but she assured me they weren't so gross after "you got to know them".  I showed her some of my dance moves. We had a great time that week. I was so excited. I told my parents I would like to have a sleep-over.

Monday came. I didn't see Star. I thought maybe she was sick. “Not to worry,” I thought. On Tuesday, when she didn't come again, I asked my counselor where she was. She responded that she didn't know. She went over to Mr. Vohaska and they spoke for a few minutes, and Mr. Vohaska got a weird, troubled look on his face. Mr. Vohaska came up to me and asked me to take a walk with him. We walked to the other side of the building and he sat me down and told me that Star wasn't going to come back to the camp. I started to cry. “Why not?” I asked. Mr. Vohaska grew quiet and looked for words to say. “She died this last weekend” he said. I was stunned. Girls my age didn't die! “What happened?” I asked him. He wouldn't tell me. He told me he was very sorry and comforted me the best he could. Then he asked my counselor to come and get me and take me back to the group. For days I walked around that campground in sad silence. Finally, on Friday afternoon, just before we left, I overheard one counselor speaking to another in a hushed, worried tone. “The father just came home and killed the whole family, just about, the mother and 4 of the 5 kids. Musta' been crazy or somethin'!”

Before then I never imagined that fathers could go crazy enough to kill anyone, much less their own flesh and blood. I was sickened and saddened at the thought of poor little Star, playing on the living room floor, happy as could be, and then, wham, all of a sudden life is over. It seemed, and it still seems, like a cruel joke. Sometimes I wish I could've done something for the poor girl and her family. She did nothing to deserve it. I remember now, Mr. Vohaska went into the building because he was crying, he didn't want me to see that he was crying.

So here's to Star, beautiful girl with the wavy brown hair, sweet soul. I haven't forgotten you and I'll see you again someday. I never stopped catching frogs. Love and peace to you.

Beauty

     Beauty.  Her picture is on the cover of the Chicago Tribune Magazine dated January 7, 2007, with the title, "Fighting Words...Award-winning journalist Beauty Turner writes with passion-and first-hand knowledge-about the exiles from CHA's vanishing high-rises".  It took me a while to read the whole article, because it was longer (and I'm a single mom), but after I read it, I knew I needed to contact her.
     The picture on the cover is a stark contrast.  Beauty's on the left, in the light, highlighting the warmth of her skin with the contrasting grey of the background that was reality.  It was powerful.  The photographer did a great job.  Beauty lived and worked with the poor people of the Robert Taylor Homes.  As the buildings on Federal Street in Chicago closed, Beauty became what she called "a voice for the voiceless". 
     Some of Beauty's story was published in the article from the magazine, "The Beauty Treatment", by Don Terry.  Above the listing in the index of the same magazine, dated 01/07/07, there is a quote from Ms. Turner, "A closed mouth doesn't get fed".  I am fortunate enough to have heard her voice on a few occasions, and I can "hear" her saying it.  
     Beauty called just about everyone "love".  If she liked you, she called you "love".  The article states, "...She survived all that and then some to become an award-winning journalist and tireless community crusader who calls almost everyone 'love'.  It's her way of spreading some of the precious stuff around.  If she doesn't call you 'love,' chances are you're a politician, a bureaucrat or a slumlord doing wrong to the poor.
     Everyone else gets the benefit of the doubt and a 'hey, love' from Ms. Beauty, as the guys on the corner call her."
     Beauty went around helping the poor in Chicago.  She did it, some for, as according to page 14, "...these days...it's hard to get politicians to even mumble the word 'poor'.  They will go on and on, especially at election time, about the financial squeeze on the middle class but rarely say a thing about the hammering poor people take.  The mainstream media, she adds, aren't much better." The other part of the reason she helped them is, as quoted as her words in the article, "Young women as well as elderly as well as ex-offenders and single moms who lost their children to gun violence and police brutality needed help, and for some reason they would come and tell me about it...I guess I would take the time to listen to them...plus I wasn't afraid to confront the powers that be."  
     Beauty worked as a journalist, she raised her children the best she could, and she went around helping people.  Before her death on December 18, 2008, she started a company called "Beauty's Ghetto Bus Tours".  People from all over took her tours.  Her web site still exists today, I am imagining to keep a light shining on the plight of the poor, the work that Beauty will be most remembered for.   She was 51.
     Miss Beauty had a profound influence on me.  Before I moved to Bourbonnais, here specifically, I had no idea who she was.  I was someone from the suburbs who had no idea what Beauty's life must have been like living on Federal Street in Chicago.  My parents moved away from the city in the mid-70's and I never visited that area.
     But there came a day in 2008 when I gathered the nerve to call her about a situation to ask her opinion and solicit her advice.  There she was, as big as life, really truly there, a real person who cared about poor people and I had the privilege of speaking to her in person.  She gave me  her time, a phone number, and her opinion.  She kindly even offered to come down herself.  Knowing that she didn't have a car, I told her that it wasn't necessary for her to do all that.  I reassured her that I would take her advice and she offered me encouragement.
     It was that encouragement, that connection that she so graciously gave me that empowered me to make a move and go ahead.  We emailed back and forth over that year.  A while back I realized that it had been a while since I heard from her so I went to send an email to her, asking her how she was doing and all.  I received a sad email back from her son, letting me know that she passed.
     The world has lost a beautiful person, a courageous person who inspired countless others to stand up and help someone who needs it.  She was a true Christian.  I will always be grateful for the precious time that she gave me, and the punch in the arm that I needed.  Thanks Ms. Turner.