My biological parents were poor, uneducated people, but they loved one another passionately. My father was a farmhand all his life. He moved from farm to farm to find work. Mom was a devoted wife and mother. I know this from individuals who knew my parents.
I don’t remember attending my father’s funeral.
He was home with us one day and gone the next. My mother’s funeral was an open-casket affair with people lined up to view the body. Many leaned down to kiss her cold lips. I don’t recall upon whose shoulder I was perched, but I do remember the terror and horror of the moment when this person lowered me to my mother’s face to kiss her mouth.
I was adopted out of the Vermilyea family shortly before Mom passed away by Barney and Vivian Hewitt. My second mom was a wonderful, nurturing person. My second dad was a gruff sort, and I never liked him as a boy. I never knew why my biological parents died or why I was adopted in the first place, since my sister and brother remained in the Vermilyea family.
The fact that no one talked to me about my parents’ deaths in either family caused me to think I was not wanted by the Vermilyea family.
Barney died on May 28, 1973, of emphysema. He smoked four packs of Camel unfiltered cigarettes a day. Vivian died on December 10, 1978, in Sioux City, Iowa, of bone cancer.
The deaths of so many family members at an early age, while emotionally tearing, has also taught me the beauty of life, the appreciation of those who have helped me sift through my dark moments. I have learned that my parents did the best they could for me, especially my adopted parents. I was an emotionally crippled child by the time I came into the Hewitt family. Vivian wanted the three of us to go into therapy, but Barney viewed therapy as a sign of weakness.
I also discovered while I lived under Barney’s roof that when I told him the truth I got beaten. When I told him what he wanted to hear, we got along. What I did not realize at the time was that telling Barney what he wanted to hear was tantamount to lying, and I learned to lie well. So well that most of my early adult life was filled with lies and distortions that I created in order to be accepted.
Around my thirteenth birthday, I stood six feet two inches and weighed 190 pounds. My trousers always hung around my protruding hips. I had a soft complexion, large brown eyes, thick, naturally curly coal-black hair, and sensuous lips. I knew there was something different about me in that I preferred the companionship of men to women.
I didn’t have a name for my being different, but as I grew older, descriptive, ugly words, such as faggot and queer, crept into my consciousness. In those days there were no support groups for young gays and lesbians—I was an outcast among family and friends. I cloaked myself in a straight role that fooled the best of them, but not me.
My adopted parents had a set of World Book Encyclopedias. From the time I entered the Hewitt family until just shortly before enlisting in the navy at age seventeen, I read each volume cover to cover. The World Book Encyclopedias were my escape into a world I wanted to understand.
I thought leaving home and starting a new life would solve all my emotional problems. Life has taught me emotional problems only compound themselves when not dealt with directly. On January 16, 1961, I enlisted in the navy: a high school dropout, frightened and arrogant.
I have often wondered why I remained in the navy as long as I did. The answer to that question came me to me during one of my therapy sessions. The navy became the parental archetype I never had. The navy provided discipline, security, and the approval of men that I never got as a young man. My sexuality during my enlistment was a constant threat, because I knew one day someone would turn me in for being gay and I would lose all I had worked for.
Those fears came to fruition months before my retirement. I also was married at the time. Marriage for me was a way of putting on a normal veneer, and I played the role well. I have three wonderful children as a result of that marriage, which ended in divorce when I finally came to grips with my sexuality and my past. I hurt a lot of people along the way trying to balance the straight life with a gay life; the boy grew into a troubled man who had created a world of lies, of myths. After I retired from the navy, I got a divorce and moved into the gay community in San Diego and became the village whore. I remained in San Diego for two tumultuous, emotionally tearing years.
My gay relationship flopped because it was based on sex only. I am thankful I am HIV negative while many gay men far less promiscuous than I have been in my past have died of AIDS.
I returned to Sioux City, Iowa, to reacquaint myself with my adoptive family and to locate members of my biological family. Two years later, I found my sister, Marie. She and I had been separated for over thirty-eight years. She was living in Yuba City, California, at the time. I left the Midwest and moved to be with Marie because I thought my sister would answer questions about my adoption and that my life somehow would finally be at rest and I would find answers to all that ailed me. The blackest moment of my life occurred when I had sex with one of my nephews, who was fourteen. I turned myself into county mental health at the time, because I knew I needed help dealing with my sexuality and my distorted, fractured life.
I spent eight months in jail and five years on probation, plus an additional ten years on surveillance as a registered sex offender. Following my release from jail, I went into therapy for two years, beginning the odyssey of dealing with my biological parents’ death, the adoption, my sexuality, and a host of other unrealistic expectations I had placed on myself over the years. In the end, my therapist told me he could do no more for me. He wanted me to take time to reflect on issues I had dealt with during therapy. He assured me at some future point I would go back into therapy and that I would know when that time had come.
Family and friends have forgiven me. I am learning to forgive myself, to have compassion and understanding for who I am and where I’ve come from. Writing is therapy, and I write what I know best—my life and those wonderful and not-so-wonderful individuals who have come my way. I am learning to get to know myself well enough not to be too terrified by what escapes from within my soul onto the page.
After I moved to the Northwest, I obtained employment and an apartment. The company I worked for at the time offered employees counseling at no cost to them. It was through this program I found Beth Boyd, therapist. I had issues with sex offender labels, child molestation labels, and a label that would follow me for the rest of my life. Somehow I had to arrive at a place where I could rise above the label and not allow my criminal past to define my future life. Around 1998 the company I had been working for went through a severe downsizing, and I lost my job.
During the early months of 1999, I began seeing Dr. John Perini at the Vietnam Veterans Center. Dr. Perini took over where Beth left off. I’ve been attending therapy sessions at this center since then.
I also want to thank Randy Hansen and Robert (Bob) Buckley, both therapists who work with Vietnam Veterans suffering PTSD—Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
These days when I study the photograph of Mom, Dad, David, Marie, and me hanging on the wall above my computer workstation, I ask the child of my past to come sit by my side to tell me stories of his fears, hopes, and frustrations; and I can tell him life is beautiful, that he was never alone, that the two of us can walk hand-in-hand down this unknown path and have fun knowing we’ll arrive at our destination together.
Lower Than a Snake’s Belly
Had Benji known what was on Eddy Bower’s mind that afternoon as they entered Sunset Market, he would never have gone inside the grocery store with him.
“Go on,” Eddy taunted as he nudged Benji with his elbow. “Take one.”
The two boys stood shoulder-to-shoulder next to a chest freezer, checking out rows of vanilla ice-cream bars sprinkled with nuts and coated with a thick layer of milk chocolate.
Benji looked at him and said, “That’s stealing.”
Eddy grinned and said, “Only if you get caught.”
Benji glanced at Mr. Winslow, o
wner of the store. He had his back to the two boys while he talked on the telephone.
“Here’s your chance,” Eddy said. “I’ll go distract old man Winslow. Stuff bars inside your lunch pail; then walk around the store like you’re going to buy something.”
“I can’t steal!”
Eddy shrugged. “What’s the matter? Auntie’s baby is scared?”
Benji froze.
To complicate matters, it was as though Aunt Stella, his dad’s sister, was standing next to him whispering in his right ear, “Liars and thieves go together.” He remembered her saying, “They’re lower than a snake’s belly.” In his left ear, Eddy’s voice rang: “Auntie’s baby scared?”
While Eddy was flipping through magazines near the front counter, Benji tossed three ice-cream bars inside his Buck Rogers lunch pail. He pretended to be shopping as he made his way back to the counter. To his amazement, Mr. Winslow smiled as the two boys sauntered outside.
Eddy put his arms around Benji’s shoulder. “See. It wasn’t all that bad.”
They stopped by a small park not far from where Benji lived and sat at a picnic table. Eddy tore the wrapper off his ice cream bar and threw it on the ground. Benji thought that was cool, so he threw his wrapper on the ground, too.
When Benji arrived home, he put his lunch box on the kitchen counter. Aunt Stella was fixing dinner. Benji normally gave his aunt a hug and kiss as soon as he got home. They would sit at the dinner table and discuss school.
“Can I go out?”
“Don’t go far. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”
“I’ll be in the backyard with Eddy,” Benji said as he raced out the back door.
“Hey! Where’s my hug,” he heard her ask as the screen door slammed shut.
After dinner, Benji helped Aunt Stella clear the table and dry the dishes. He had just finished drying the last dish when she said, “Don’t forget to clean out your lunch box.”
“There’s nothing in it,” Benji said.
“I think you ought to check.” Aunt Stella smiled.
Benji shrugged. When he opened the lid to his Buck Rogers lunch box, he froze. His eyes focused on the chocolate ooze covering the bottom of his lunch box.
“Where did the ice-cream bar come from?” Aunt Stella asked, leaning over his shoulder.
Unable to speak, Benji stuttered and stammered.
“Where did the ice-cream bar come from?” Aunt Stella asked again.
“Sunset Market.”
“Where did you get the money?”
“Eddy,” Benji said.
Aunt Stella was quiet for a moment and then asked, “Where did Eddy get his money from?”
Benji’s lies kept coming. “His dad.”
Aunt Stella glanced out the kitchen window. Eddy was kicking the volley ball around the backyard. She rapped on the window with her knuckles as she slid the storm window open.
“Would you come inside for a moment?” she said through the screen.
She pointed to a chair around the table. Benji’s face reddened as Eddy sat at the table next to him. Aunt Stella sat across from the two boys.
“Benji tells me you bought him chocolate ice-cream bars after school.”
Eddy didn’t look at Benji. He shrugged, smirked, and said, “Benji bought them.”
Benji gulped. His heart sank to his legs as he stared at the sugar bowl in the middle of the table. He didn’t hear Eddy leave.
Aunt Stella sat across from Benji. She was a short, stout woman. Wrinkles covered her freckled face. Her brown hair was twisted in a bun; a red darning needle held it in place. She always wore faded blue jeans and tennis shoes. She wore a clean but stained white smock with deep pockets filled with all sorts of gardening tools and packages of seeds for her vegetable garden.
“Why did you lie?”
Tears began to steam down his cheeks as he stared at the sugar bowl.
“Look at me,” she insisted.
Benji’s stomach soured. He could not face her.
“Why did you steal?”
He shook his head, cried, and said, “I don’t know.”
“Oh? The ice-cream bar leaped into your lunch box on its own?”
“No,” Benji said, half laughing, half serious.
“Eddy twisted your arm?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
Aunt Stella scratched her head, looked at Benji, and said, “Liars and thieves go together.” She paused. “You’re lower than a snake’s belly.”
Her words ripped into Benji’s soul.
When he walked into his bedroom, he could not face the mirror on his dresser. What did Aunt Stella know about friendship? Now he wished he had listened to her. He knew at that moment he had a conscience, and he sat in his own seat of judgment. For the first time in his life, he understood shame and dishonor.
Benji was thirteen and a bit pudgy. He had never liked physical education classes. It wasn’t that he didn’t like sports; he did, but he had horrible coordination. He couldn’t dribble a basketball down a court without stumbling over his own feet or tripping over the basketball and falling on his face. Football was out, because his short legs couldn’t keep up with the taller, more agile boys, and they laughed at Benji because they said he ran like a girl. When one of the players threw him the football, his short, stubby arms and legs got in the way of each other. He would jerk about the field, and the football would slam in his face. He tried baseball, too.
When he hit the ball, it was usually a foul ball. Worse yet, if he did hit the ball into the outfield, his legs didn’t seem to know what direction Benji wanted to go. The first baseman always got the ball before Benji arrived.
Basketball, football, and baseball may not have appealed to Benji, but fishing did. He learned the love of the sport from his father. His father never taunted Benji about his lack of coordination on the basketball, baseball, or football field. He always told Benji to find his own path and not to run with a pack of guys. He taught Benji to accept himself, to love himself. Benji and his father would sit on the riverbank for hours catching bullheads and catfish. Benji’s father was not only his fishing buddy, but his best friend, too.
On Benji’s ninth birthday, a drunk driver rammed into his father’s car head-on one block from Benji’s house and killed his father. Benji’s world collapsed. Benji wouldn’t go to the riverbank for a year after his father’s death, until Aunt Stella took him fishing. Benji wore a wide-brimmed wicker hat Aunt Stella had given him when the two of them began fishing together. All of his fishing hooks dangled from the side of his wicker hat. Benji wore the wicker hat everywhere he went. He carried a brown canvass backpack that had belonged to his father. It held his fishing gear and a fishing rod that could be broken down into three sections.
Aunt Stella was not only Benji’s favorite aunt but also his closest friend in all his family. When Benji couldn’t talk to his mom, he would confide in Aunt Stella. Aunt Stella’s attitude and actions mirrored Benji’s father, so it was natural for Benji to become close to her. Besides, after his father’s death, Benji’s mother didn’t seem to want him around. Her life was in turmoil. She had never worked but now was forced into employment. At work she had met another man. They dated and married before Benji turned twelve. His new father played minor-league sports: softball, basketball, and baseball. He teased Benji about being clumsy and a sissy. When Benji’s mom didn’t defend her son, it seemed to Benji he wasn’t wanted at home anymore. Feeling isolated and unwanted, Benji withdrew into himself. He thought he was alone and no one cared if he lived or died.
Aunt Stella sensed Benji’s growing depression. In time he knew his secrets were safe with her, because he had shared his innermost thoughts, sometimes lies, a test on Benji’s part to see if Aunt Stella would ever snitch. She never did. He also visited Aunt Stella because she told him war stories about being in the Marine Corps. She taught him virtue, honor, and pride. A man, above all else, was the sum of his convictions. Without convicti
ons about what was right and wrong, a man was no more than a lump of coal.
She also told Benji, “Turmoil creates character. Learn to deal with life’s problems head-on and don’t run. Only a wimp runs.”
On several occasions following the death of his father, Aunt Stella suggested to Benji’s mom that perhaps Benji could move in with Aunt Stella for a while until Benji’s mom was able to come to grips with her home situation. At first Benji’s mom scoffed at the idea. Then she became pregnant, got sick, and had even less time to spend with Benji. To the delight of his stepfather, Benji moved in with Aunt Stella. Aunt Stella gave him the attic room with a view looking out over a huge vacant lot in the back of the house.
At first Benji was content to be alone in his room or visit with Aunt Stella. As the summer wore on, he went outside and walked about the neighborhood. It was during one of those walks that Benji met Eddy Bower. Although Eddy Bower and Benji went to the same school, Benji had never gotten close to Eddy until he came to live with Aunt Stella. Eddy lived two houses down from Aunt Stella’s place. Eddy, fifteen, was athletic and lean, and he had a mouth. Oddly, it was Eddy’s attitude that attracted Benji to him. Eddy was the neighborhood clown, always playing practical jokes. He sought confrontation with kids his own age and adults. There were times when Benji wished he could be like Eddy. Aunt Stella had repeatedly warned Benji that one day Eddy would use him for his own entertainment. Benji had scoffed.
What did Aunt Stella know about friendships? Now he wished he had listened to Aunt Stella’s warnings about Eddy Bower.
Benji didn’t sleep that night as he tossed and turned in bed. “You’re lower than a snake’s belly.” Aunt Stella’s words pounded inside his head.
The following morning, Benji forced himself out of bed. Aunt Stella was sitting at the breakfast table waiting for him. The telephone was sitting on the table next to her cup of coffee. She had a box of Cheerios on the table next to a bowl and spoon. Benji didn’t look at her as he sat down to breakfast. The hair on the back of his neck quivered. Goose bumps spread over his body. He could feel her penetrating glare.
Pieces of Broken China Page 5