A Lotus Grows in the Mud

by Goldie Hawn

  With a sudden rush of blood to my head, I sit bolt upright in bed. “It’s Christmas!”

  I try to imagine the day I’m about to have with Mommy and Daddy and Patti. I conjure up an image of the comforting rituals of Christmas with the family all around. I know that for the rest of the day, everyone will treat me like the little girl I desperately want to remain, giving me presents and being especially kind. Yet something inside doesn’t feel quite so joyful.

  Slipping out of bed as quietly as I can, and grabbing my turquoise dog, I pull on my bathrobe and tiptoe barefoot down the hallway toward the stairs. Settling on a step in the heavy silence of the sleeping house, I stare down at the Christmas tree lights in the living room, admiring the way their reflection colors the walls. It is, for me, the most magical moment of this, the most magical morning of the year.

  Sitting in the chill air of the stairwell, spellbound with little-girl wonder for one last time, I face the same dilemma I face every year. Which color do I like the best? Is it the deep blue or the orange or one of the reds? Usually, I choose the yellow, but for some reason I don’t feel like yellow this Christmas.

  Whispering into the soft ear of my toy dog, I tell him sadly, “This year, I don’t like any of them more than the rest. This year, I like all of them the best.”

  It is proven that the more you remind yourself of a bad experience, the more damaging it can be because it imprints that experience indelibly on your mind and creates a new reality. Like wiggling a bad tooth with the tip of your tongue.

  If you can tell yourself, Oh, forget about it, and if you actually can forget about it, then I believe you may be better off, because your mind doesn’t store that memory and embellish it. This is one of the functions of the brain. With positive input, it creates new neural pathways that can alter your perception of reality.

  Instinctively, my mother somehow knew this. Instead of using the terms “abuse” or “molestation”—words that would have lodged in my brain like a maggot—she explained to me that this young man was unwell in his own mind. I was never made to feel dirty, or that I had done anything wrong. I believed what my mother told me about his being sick, and I even felt a modicum of compassion for him.

  If, as parents, we can assure our children that things are all right, if we don’t constantly revisit a bad experience or are not overheard telling others about it, then it reassures our children and lets them know that there is no point dwelling on it.

  That is not to say that there aren’t some terrible things that can happen that inform our relationships, imprinting on how we feel about ourselves and others. Clearly, it is important to seek help in those instances—especially in the case of sexual assault—to try to understand what has happened and how it has affected the victim. So many women are victimized and never talk about it because they feel so ashamed.

  To be afraid or ashamed is to lock the door on the experience. If we lock the door, then the psyche represses feelings, and, later, symptoms will begin to emerge. Sometimes, as time goes on, we can end up behaving in ways that we don’t like, because we are allowing fears to keep us from having healthy, satisfying relationships. The fear of opening up that door is usually much greater than what lies behind it.

  My mother opened that door immediately, before I was able to distort this event because of fear or failure to understand what happened to me. I learned to forgive by seeing my mother handle this, by putting my fears to rest. As a consequence, although this experience was horribly frightening, although it marked the end of my childhood, the end of my innocence, in many ways, it never marred me to the point that later I shied away from a man’s touch, or had ugly flashbacks of being molested as a child. I never lost my trust in the male sex.

  What is important here is how we attend to our children, and how we show our feelings. Our responses directly affect how our children’s experiences are imprinted. This episode and its aftermath were such an important aspect of my growth in terms of sexual energy and understanding, and I will forever be grateful for the way it was handled.

  The key is not to let these things fester. Worst of all, don’t revel in being a victim. Don’t become comfortable in your misery. Take back control. You may not be able to change what happened, but you can change your perception of it. All you need is the intention, and you have the power to change. Face up to what happened, admit it and try to move on. Through understanding, try to forgive not only yourself but the person who did this to you. This is truly another path to happiness.

  postcard

  My mother and I slip out of our cab on our way back from my dance class and walk up the narrow path to the front door. “What in the world is that noise?” Mom asks, stopping in her tracks and tilting her head to listen.

  I can hear it now: a loud, white noise coming from somewhere deep inside our house. Running to the porch, I find Nixi cowering on the doorstep, ears flat. Flinging the door open, we rush inside. The house is in darkness, but the noise drones on from the kitchen.

  “Rut? Rutledge? Is that you?” my mother calls.

  “In here,” my father yells from the back room.

  We rush through the house and find him sitting in his big mohair armchair with a scotch in his hand, his customary TV tray by his side, and a strange smile on his face. A single lamp illuminates the room.

  “What in the hell are you doing?” Mom asks. Like me, she stares wide-eyed at the long piece of plastic hose that Daddy is sitting in front of, legs crossed elegantly like a seventeenth-century count.

  Following its course, I hurry into the kitchen to find the hose connected to the Electrolux vacuum cleaner, which is carefully positioned in front of the stove. All four gas burners are on, and there is some strange sort of contraption suspended over them, sucking the heat into the hose, along its length, right to Daddy’s stocking feet. Mom has followed me, and, like me, her mouth drops open. Together, we wander back in to stare at Daddy.

  “Have you seen our heating bill?” Daddy asks, waving a piece of paper in his hand. “I came up with a much cheaper method of heating the house.”

  “Are you completely insane?” my mother shrieks. Coming to her senses, she rushes back to the stove and switches off the gas. Hurrying back to confront my father, she barks, “Are you trying to blow us all up?”

  I look up at her, confused for a moment, and then back at Daddy. His socks are peeled halfway off his feet as usual, to air them while he takes a break. It is six o’clock, and he can’t have been in long from his day at work.

  On his little TV table is his customary glass of bourbon, a jar of cut horseradish and bottles of A.1. and Worcestershire sauce. Like some fabulous fop, he embarks on an elaborate nightly ritual like another man might drink a martini with an olive.

  First, he takes the bottle of Worcestershire sauce, inhales the contents deeply, puts it down. Then, he picks up the bottle of A.1. sauce and does the same. Finally, the horseradish, which blasts up his nostrils and makes his eyes water so much that only a sip of bourbon will clear things up. This is his way of unwinding. I don’t think this is weird at all; I imagine this is what all fathers do.

  “Rut? Did you hear me?” Mom asks, hands on her hips. “I said, ‘Are you crazy or what?’ ”

  “Just trying to save you some money, Laura,” Daddy says, without looking up at her.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!”

  Mom hurries back into the kitchen to dismantle the rest of Daddy’s latest invention. She rattles around in there for almost an hour, cursing to herself all the while, noisily preparing supper. Wandering in, I sit at the table watching her, mesmerized by her hardworking hands holding a wooden spoon, beating and folding and mixing something. Nobody cooks like my mom. Nobody has better hands. She talks with her hands; she kneads with her hands; she loves with her hands.

  Sitting at the table when dinner is ready, we bow our heads and close our eyes while I say grace: “God is great. God is good. Thank you, God, for this food.”

  Before I op
en my eyes again, I inhale and try to guess what Mom has made. It might be borscht or her delicious brisket with French onion soup, chopped liver or chicken with dumplings, Hungarian goulash or noodles with cottage cheese.

  “Thanks, Sergeant,” Dad says, giving Mom a mock salute as she serves him his plateful. His mouth full, he begins to regale us with tales of his evening the night before. “President Kennedy and his wife hosted a dinner for King Saud of Saudi Arabia last night, and we played Strauss while the king danced all around the room in a long dress.”

  I laugh and laugh at his stories, rocking back on my chair. My mother, in spite of herself, has to crack a smile too.

  Clearing away the dishes, she throws a comment over her shoulder, “By the way, did you go to the store last night and rearrange my show window?” Her eyebrows arched in suspicion.

  “Yes, I did.” My father grins, winking at me across the table. “I thought it needed my artistic touch.”

  “I spent half the day putting it back to normal, Rut.”

  “Normal? What’s that?” my dad asks.

  Daddy and Mommy are two separate people to me. Apples and oranges. I spend time either with one or with the other, rarely together. Whenever she rants at him in one of their one-sided arguments, he flicks the switch on the vacuum cleaner to drown her out. Once, when they were arguing while wallpapering the bathroom, he recorded every word of it, to play back to her later. He was hilarious. I helped Mom clear the table while Dad went upstairs to change into his tuxedo as he did almost every night, to play at parties thrown by various dignitaries in Washington, D.C. I was awakened late that night to the smell of hush puppies and chili-mac. I can just see my dad in the kitchen now, preparing his late-night snack in his tuxedo and the white blouse he borrowed from my mother because his white tuxedo shirt was dirty. I closed my eyes and laughed myself to sleep. There’s nobody like him, I thought to myself, nobody like him in the whole world.

  In the morning, I am the first up to fix eggs and cream cheese before school. The first thing I see as I come down the stairs is my mother’s stuffed pheasant, which always stands on the living-room mantelpiece. It was a wedding present from my mother’s eccentric father, Max. As usual, my dad always has the last laugh. He had dressed the pheasant with her glasses, her hairpiece planted firmly on its head. Beside it lay her purse. He had his own little private moment of mirth with his absurd take on life. I always think of that bird as a representation of his humor, his spirit and, yes, his anger. As I’m cooking my eggs, I hear my mother’s footsteps coming down the stairs. I wait and listen as she stops and takes in my father’s latest creation. I hear her deep and throaty laugh.

  This is what Daddy does best. He makes her laugh.

  Eleven years old and only just able to reach the ground astride my blue Schwinn bicycle. (Author’s Collection)

  fear

  It is what we don’t know that frightens us, and nothing stifles joy like fear.

  All is well with my world, or so I believe. It is a beautiful sunny day, and I am in the sixth grade at the school that is half a mile from my home in Takoma Park. The name of the town I grew up in derives from an old Indian word meaning “higher up near heaven.” I love that. Nothing in my twelve years has ever caused me to doubt its truth. But I am about to learn, in the most graphic way, that death is just a heartbeat away.

  I have been practicing my handwriting all morning with my best teacher, Mrs. Volmer. Robust and big-breasted, with perfect brown hair, she has taught me more than any teacher I have ever had. Gripping my pen firmly between the forefinger and thumb of my left hand, my tongue poking out of the corner of my mouth, I carefully draw circles within circles, making perfect loops every time, never allowing my hand to leave the paper.

  The only left-hander in my class, I work very hard to hold my pen the way everyone else does. Thank heavens Mrs. Volmer doesn’t force me to work with my right hand, or tie my left hand behind my back as some teachers do. Looping and looping, trying hard to keep within the lines, I can’t help but feel like I’m dancing.

  “Okay, class,” she suddenly announces, clapping her hands together to attract our attention, “once you’ve finished your handwriting practice we’re going to the Visual Aids Room to watch a film.”

  The class is all abuzz, excited about the chance to watch a movie about growing corn or New York City or maybe something about nature. Eager too, I finish my perfect loops, throw my pen into my pencil box and slam down the desk lid.

  We all line up like little soldiers and snake our way out of the class. “Quiet down, children. Single file,” Mrs. Volmer instructs. I start to do some balancés down the hallway but hear Mrs. Volmer from the back of the line: “Goldie, no dancing, please.” Embarrassed, I fall back in step with the rest.

  We file on through the cold, dark gymnasium, with its squeaky wooden floor and its bittersweet memories of the maypole dance and the talent show. We wend our way down the stairs to the basement. We call it “the Dungeon.”

  I scramble for a good seat in the front row and fidget next to my friends, staring up expectantly at the screen.

  “Quiet down, now quiet down, kids. Hands in laps.”

  Mrs. Volmer flicks off the lights, and I whisper to the girl next to me, “I wonder what we’re going to see.” Staring into the inky blackness, I hear Mrs. Volmer make her way across to the projector, then click it on, and the 16 millimeter film starts running through the machine. Ever since I can remember, I have been scared of the dark. My mother always leaves my bedroom door open every night and the light on in the hallway. Now that there is a little light flickering on the screen, I feel comforted.

  Then a bright white light on the screen suddenly illuminates the whole room. It is the face of a huge clock. A booming voice counts backward: “Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…five…four…three…two…one.”

  Suddenly, an enormous explosion erupts from the screen. The entire room vibrates. “This is what will happen when there is an enemy attack,” a voice announces.

  My whole being is shaken to the core. I gasp aloud, and press my back hard against the cold metal chair. The sheer noise and vibration level send me into a cataclysmic nosedive of fear.

  The camera pans across images of total geological and human devastation. Flying debris. Windows bursting from buildings, flames and thick smoke billowing from the earth. Trees, whole areas of the earth, flattened. Mothers sobbing, maimed and choking in the wreckage, their babies lying bleeding on the ground. I plug my ears against their agonizing cries.

  My heart is pulsing in my throat. I feel dizzy, sick to my stomach. I begin to tremble from head to toe. I am in shock, unable to speak. This isn’t a horror movie; this isn’t a nightmare. This is real. Or is it? Could this really happen?

  Mommy, I cry inside my head, rocking myself backward and forward in my seat. Mommy. I need my mom.

  I try not to hear the words of the voice as it goes on to tell me the likelihood of such an apocalypse and presents me with chilling instructions about what I need to do to protect myself. Cringing as if every word were colliding with me physically, I listen to his ominous warnings of blinding flashes of light, flying glass and melting metal. Tighter and tighter, I curl into my body, and when the voice tells me to “Duck and cover” under my chair or school desk, or anywhere I can to save myself, I am already doing it.

  Mrs. Volmer snaps the lights back on. My classmates and I sit blinking into the white glare for a moment, waiting for the images to fade. Jumping up, I run to the back of the class.

  “I need to go home” is all I can say weakly, clutching my stomach. “I need my mommy. I don’t feel so good.”

  Weighed down with an aching heaviness like gravity, I look up at my teacher, confident that she will see how shattered I am and do something about it. Strangely, she doesn’t, which frightens me even more.

  “But, Goldie, you never go home for lunch,” she says, tilting her head and giving me a curious look.

  “I know, but my mo
m is expecting me,” I lie. Can’t she see how upset I am?

  “But won’t Barney miss you?”

  I think of Barney, my friend with cerebral palsy whom I have lunch with in the cafeteria every day, but I still need to go home. “I’ll see him later,” I reply.

  “Well, all right, then, but hurry back.”

  I run up the stairs, push open the door to the gymnasium and tear across it. I rush out into the comforting daylight and head home. Sprinting toward my house, crying, the whole of my body heaving, I pick up the pace with each step. My feet pound the sidewalk as I fly through my neighborhood, past the crossing guard, who smiles at me strangely, wondering why I’m going home.

  I can still hear the voice of the film in my head: “To avoid atomic radiation, be sure to use soap to wash it off your skin before it starts to burn.” I run faster. I need to talk to my mom.

  The voice continues in my ears: “Always remember the flash of an atomic bomb can come at any time. Go to the nearest safe cover. Know where you are to go, or ask an older person to help you. Duck and cover. That flash means act fast. Remember, duck and cover.”

  All my realities have shifted. Everything looks different. I can suddenly picture my ordinary neighborhood scorched and flattened.

  We are all going to die, I tell myself. Of course we’re going to die. I mean…we live so close to Washington, D.C. They’ll drop a bomb and we’ll all be dead.

  I fly past the old lady who sits in her window and waves at me every morning on my way to school. Does she know that she’s going to die? I fly past the man who is always outside mowing or raking his lawn; the boy who walks his dog. Everyone I know is going to die.