Confession, on Saturday afternoons, was something to be dreaded by my two siblings but I looked forward to it. Mike, Monica, and I would slowly make our way to the church. One time the three of us were kneeling at the pew and it was time for Mike to go into the little booth and confess his sins to the priest.
“Bless me Father for I have sinned, it’s been one week since my last confession. I got in a fight with my sister, I…”
Mike talked so loudly; soon I began to feel guilty over hearing his private sins. Instantly covering my ears, I whispered Hail Mary and The Lord’s Prayer as loudly as I could to drown out my brother’s sins.
I could hardly contain my excitement as I waited for my turn. I felt so clean after talking to the priest. Of course, I never told him what was really happening in our home, and almost immediately, as I’d leave the church and head home, the dirtiness and shame I felt about myself would settle over me like a dark cloud.
I thought everything bad that happened to me or my family was somehow the result of the secret I lived with. I truly believed it was my fault and I tried so hard to be compliant, doing what I was told without arguing, cleaning the house, making dinners, teaching my siblings manners, being the good little mother to the younger kids.
When I was about to enter the fifth grade Mom and Dad moved into a brand new, contemporary home on the other side of town, 1450 Holly drive would become our new address. It was much nicer than our old house it had wall-to-wall carpeting, a fireplace, central air-conditioning and heating, two bathrooms, a patio, and modern appliances, including a dishwasher, which we’d never had before. We were all thrilled to move into our new home.
Mom had quit the factory job that had taken her away from the family on Saturdays but the fighting between my parents didn’t end, even though the residence changed. In fact, their loud quarrels grew even louder. The name-calling and accusations continued to spiral out of control. By that time, I had stopped going to church because it was too far from our new house.
One Friday night a loud banging on the front door awakened all of us. Running into the front room, we were blinded by the bright lights coming from outside. It was if the brilliance of the sun was shining right in our living room in the middle of the night. Where was the light coming from?
“Mommy, who’s at the door?” One of my brothers asked.
“Go on, you kids, get back to bed now!” Mom screamed.
Quickly, I took my younger siblings back to their bedroom then snuck back into the living room. Hiding behind a chair with my sister and older brother we watched in horror as the front door was kicked open. Looking outside we could see several black and white police cars pointing towards the front of our house. Each had the high beams of their headlights on. The officers cuffed my dad and escorted him to the car. I watched in horror. It’s my fault; they are taking my father to jail. How did they find out about our secret?
As soon as morning came we couldn’t wait to go outside and play and put aside the events of the night before. I don’t know how long our dad was gone, or why the policemen came and took him away. We didn’t ask any questions and we never did get a new front door.. Feeling guilty but relieved, I quickly realized how happy I was to have my dad out of the house.
It didn’t take us long to make friends in our new neighborhood. Monica and I met a girl named Molly, who lived around the corner. “Come in and meet my Daddy,” she said one day.
“Daddy these are my new friends, Monica and Debbie.” Her father was sitting in a Lazy-boy chair. He reached down, unscrewed his leg, pulled it out from his shorts and leaned his freaky artificial leg against the chair. I ran out of the house screaming. My sister and Molly dragged me back into the house, and after that I grew used to her dad’s scary, wooden prosthesis.
While playing at Molly’s house one day, her dad promised us animal crackers with icing and sprinkles on top if my sister and I would help her clean the house. Little red sugar ants were everywhere, but we didn’t care. With six kids, we rarely bought store bought cookies. The thought of those delectable treats made the afternoon chores go quickly. I would watch our new friend climb up on her daddy’s lap and he would cuddle and kiss her cheeks. They would laugh together and smile at each other. Is that what dads are supposed to do with their daughters? It seemed so foreign to me! I wondered if they had secrets, too.
There were other happy memories at our house on Holly drive too. Just around the block there was an orange grove, so we were able to resume building forts. We hung out all day that summer with our new friends, walking the streets, reaching for the fresh, tangy oranges that grew plentiful on the overhanging branches. We were never alone, a group of us would walk unafraid miles from our house to pick plump purple grapes from nearby vineyards and pop them in our mouths. One of our favorite things to do was explore old, abandoned houses around the neighborhood. I loved picturing how other people lived in the olden days. One time we found a bird’s nest with a fresh, blue egg in it. Running all the way home we couldn’t wait to show Mom our treasure. But by the time we got home, the egg was cracked and most of the bird’s nest had come apart.
We loved our adventures, spending time with each other, discovering new things, and being away from the house. It must have given us a feeling of independence and control over our often-chaotic lives. My mother never asked where we went all day. She didn’t care as long as we had gotten our chores done. Mom never had restrictions on when we had to come home, and she usually had a home-cooked meal ready for us. Since we often skipped lunch, the thought of Mom’s crunchy tacos and tasty bean burritos always lured us back to the house by dinnertime.
Much later, Mom finally told us older kids that our dad had been arrested for selling drugs and that was the reason the cops kicked our door in. He was released from jail a few months later, and showed up at our house. Shortly thereafter, my mother disappeared for a while. When we were all grown up, she told us she had been arrested for selling speed and the police had locked her up for a few months also. Afterwards she moved to an apartment above the local neighborhood bar called The Sugar Shack.
While Mom was away, Dad moved his nineteen-year-old girlfriend, Glenda, into our home. I hated the new arrangement and I missed my mom. We kids didn’t like the new rules my dad and Glenda implemented. I was ten and in the fifth grade and my dad decided to give us an allowance for the first time in our lives. The catch was each time we failed to do one of our chores he deducted twenty-five to fifty cents. It didn’t affect me as much as my siblings because not only did I do my chores but I often did theirs as well.
One time my dad’s girlfriend took my sister and I to the mall to do some window-shopping. We had never been there before. Glenda ordered us a warm piece of gingerbread cake with a dollop of whip cream on top from the food court. It melted in our mouth my sister and I had never tasted anything so good. Although we experienced fun times with Glenda, we missed our mom terribly and we resented the way she tried to act like our mother.
When it came to school, at first, I hated going there and I despised my teacher, Mr. Bollinger. He deliberately sat me between two boys, Terry and Arthur. I was afraid of boys and those two were best friends and they both had a crush on me. They always tried to talk to me at my desk or when we lined up. I was so embarrassed and I blamed my teacher that’s why I disliked him.
Mr. Bollinger had a strange ritual; every day before lunch all thirty kids had to line up and scrub our fingernails before eating lunch. I couldn’t stand waiting in that line with the boys on either side of me teasing me and brushing up against me. I just wanted to hurry up and get to the cafeteria. At some point during the school year I began to feel guilty for hating my teacher and forgave him for seating me between Arthur and Terry. I started looking forward to going to school and eventually began to like him. It felt sad when I had to say goodbye at the end of the fifth grade. Now whenever I hear Roger Miller songs, I’m reminded of Mr. Bollin
ger who played those songs on his 45 records in the classroom.
Towards the end of fifth grade we had to take the California Achievement Test. Raising my hand high Mr. Bollinger could see I was visibly upset. Walking over to my desk, he discretely asked, “What is it Debbie? Why aren’t you starting the test?”
“I don’t know what to check for my nationality,” I knew my mother was Spanish, mixed with American Indian and other things and my father was English, German, and Irish.
“What do you mean? You’re white, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m a wetback!” I answered, proudly.
Hiding a laugh my teacher said, “Who told you, you were a wetback?”
“My father calls me one all the time.”
“Do you know what a wetback is?”
“What do you mean?” I said with a confused look on my face.
Mr. Bollinger kindly explained, “A wetback is someone who swims the Rio Grande River from Mexico in order to come into the United States illegally. You are not a wetback.”
Over the years I have laughed about that memory. My dad must have said it so often that I believed that’s what I was. I did not realize he was insulting me and my brothers and sister and heartlessly making fun of my mom because of her nationality. I was too young to know about verbal abuse. And while we often heard the “N” word growing up, at the time I did not realize my dad was being racist. Not only did we grow up hearing Dad belittling our mom but he also referred to us as little bastards and he’d pop us in the head with his open hand. Finally, one day my mom put a stop to it and screamed at him, “Bob, don’t ever touch my children again.”
He never hit us after that.
While still in the fifth grade, I had made a new best friend, who was in my class. I always looked forward to going go to her house after school. She had a dream bedroom, a white canopy bed took up almost the entire room. I had only seen a bed like that in the Sears and Roebuck catalog. I spent many afternoons at her house and from my observations she seemed to come from a normal family. Her mother would greet us after school and fix us a snack while asking about our day. That never happened in my home.
I had hoped, with my dad’s young girlfriend living in our home, that the nighttime visits would end. When the sun was shining, I felt safe! On a warm, summer afternoon, while Mom was still living out of the house, my dad locked all of my siblings outside and ordered me to go in my bedroom. Where was Glenda? I wondered. Promptly, he pulled down the shades and proceeded to undress me. This had never happened in the daylight hours. Shaking, I knew what was going to follow. My brothers and sister were right outside my bedroom window laughing and playing and I longed to be with them. I begged my father to stop and let me go outside. I was furious with him for bringing the secret of the night into the daytime. Anxiety filled me, knowing that everyone I loved was still awake. I was sure they all knew what was occurring and hated me for it. I tried to shut my mind off, but all I could think about was how mad I was at him. Why is this happening to me? I am such a bad girl!
Later when it was over I hoped my siblings wouldn’t ask me what I had been doing while they were all outside. I had been directed to lie if they inquired and I hated lying. They never asked me anything. Boy, was I relieved. Thankfully, it would be the last time my dad ever touched me.
After that it wasn’t long before our mother came back to live with us, then my father left with his young girlfriend. I found out later that it had been my dad who would not let Mom come home. Peace welled inside me as I sat next to my mother on the living room couch that evening.
“Come here and listen. I have something to tell you kids.”
All eyes turned towards her.
6
Where’s Dad?
“I will strengthen you, though you have not acknowledged me.” Isaiah 45:5b
The six of us watched Mom intently as she spoke. “Your father and I are getting a divorce.”
“What is divorce?” asked five-year old, Steve.
“Your dad won’t ever live with us again and It is not your fault, we both love you. But we do not love each other anymore. If you ever want to talk about it, I want you to know I care about your feelings. We will have to move out of this house.”
“Mom, are we going to move back to our old house on Ceres drive?” Mike asked.
“No, but we will be moving back to Ceres, to a different house”
“When are we moving?” I asked.
“You guys can all finish the school year out so we will be here a few more months.”
I didn’t care about leaving our new house. I hated what had happened there, although I had made several friends that year. I couldn’t wait to move back to our old street where all of our old friends still lived. Divorce was not a common occurrence at that time and we didn’t know anybody else whose parents were divorced, I worried that people wouldn’t like us anymore.
Even with my dad gone, turmoil continued to escalate in our lives. At first Mom was good about trying to explain things. But even though she kept the door open for us to question her, rarely did we take her up on it. It was a nice gesture, but Mom failed to realize we were afraid to really tell her how we felt. After all, we grew up hearing Mom’s favorite saying, “Children are to be seen and not heard.” And while the laughs around our house were often frequent, Mom had unknowingly taught us to bury our feelings. The minute we showed any anger, annoyance, or irritation we were threatened and sent to our room.
Another thing was we all grew up knowing our mother preferred boys to girls. She often commented, “I don’t like girls who are sissy and whiny, and my daughters will not turn out like that.” So, Monica and I learned to keep our thoughts and feelings to ourselves.
After the divorce, it seemed like my mom was not carefree like she had been before. Her dependence on drugs had increased, although we didn’t realize it at the time. We only knew Mom was spending more time brooding in her room and her moods were often volatile.
She had extreme angry outbursts or bouts of depression, and then she’d be laughing and telling jokes. We never knew which mood she’d be in.
Mom started going out at night and she brought home her first boyfriend, one of many. I was furious with her, but I was glad she and my dad were no longer a couple. Nevertheless, the thought of her being with another man bothered me.
Debbie no longer babysat for us. Mom tried out several of her new friends’ teenagers to watch us. Unfortunately for my sister, one boy tried to molest her.
Later when my mom returned she asked, “How did you like the new babysitter? Is he going to work out for you kids?”
My sister didn’t have the courage to tell our mother what really happened and she somehow knew our mother wouldn’t validate her feelings so she gathered all us kids and we all agreed to tell Mom we hated our new babysitter.
“I promise you I will never let him in our home again.” Mom reassured us.
Although that didn’t stop her from going out to the bars, only now, she simply left us on our own. She must have figured my eleven-year-old brother was old enough to take care of things.
We rarely saw our mother drink. Occasionally she’d sip a chilled can of beer but we never saw her drunk. Mom would always do her drinking at the bars. Before going out, she would make sure we were all in bed. Then just before she’d leave, she would come into my room, and lightly tap me on the shoulder to wake me. “Debbie, I’m going out now. If your brothers and sister wake up take good care of them. I’ll be home soon. Go back to sleep now.
“No, Mom, don’t go, please don’t go out again. I just know something bad is going to happen to you and you’ll get into an accident and die and never come back!”
“Don’t be silly. Nothing’s going to happen.” She’d try and reassure me, anxious to depart.
No matter how many tears I shed, no matter how many times I’d plead w
ith her to change her mind, she always went out. Lying awake in the darkness, staring at the open bedroom door, afraid to go to sleep, and afraid to stay awake, I would think about my mom dying. Remembering back to her conversation with Amelia, that I had overheard a few years earlier.
I was sure that when I would wake up, Mom would still be gone, or worse yet, she would not be home at all because she’d been killed! Hours later, I would fall into a fitful sleep. Thankfully, she was usually in her bed when I woke up in the mornings. But that still didn’t stop me from being afraid for the next time.
I had been nicknamed “Mother MaCree,” by my siblings because I had taken care of my brothers while they were still in diapers. I cleaned and cooked and I took it upon myself to teach my siblings manners during the dinner hour. “Dave, get your elbows off the table. Mike, don’t talk with your mouth full. Steve, chew your food before swallowing.”
All I had wanted was to make sure my family didn’t act like barbarians. But inevitably, all the kids would chant, “Deb’s, Mother MaCree, Deb’s, Mother MaCree.” When Mom was home, she ignored us and didn’t come to my rescue while the other kids teased me. Usually, I would end up crying, but it didn’t deter me, I still tried to mother my siblings and I continued to be called Mother MaCree.
A lot went on after Dad left. One thing was, I experienced my first crush. Ronny was a year older than me and he was the son of my mom’s best friend. My mother and his mother used to go drinking at a bar nearby called “The Kopper Key.” Each Sunday morning Ronny invited my sister and me to accompany him to the deserted parking lot. We would pick up change that had fallen out of the drunk’s pockets on the previous Saturday night. I relished hanging out with my new crush and hearing his wild stories. Ronny had an older sister named Kathy. She occasionally babysat for us when our divorced mothers went out together.
Something About Those Eyes Page 4