by Dave Pelzer
“I’m not trying to pry,” I asserted, “I just want to know so . . . so I don’t do the same as . . .” I could almost see Aunt Jane nodding in approval. “I understand. Don’t be too judgmental. Like I said, it was a different era back then; for your parents, and their parents before them. Whatever problems we had were swept under the rug. Family skeletons were kept locked in the closet. A lot of us had high hopes that situations we dealt with or how we were raised wouldn’t be passed on to our children. It was hard on all of us. If you children can break the cycle, that’s all any of us as adults can ever wish for. There are no guarantees in life, so learn from others’ mistakes. Enjoy what you can, while you can. Don’t let it consume you like . . . well, just let go and let life happen.”
For me, Aunt Jane said it all in a nutshell. Afterward, I replayed every word in my mind, even months after we spoke. Aunt Jane did not know, but her words “Don’t let it consume you” were the last words Father had said to me before I enlisted in the air force: “Do what you have to. Don’t end up like me.” My aunt helped me to realize that whatever had happened between Mother and me had deeper causes than her drinking and abuse. I could only guess whatever anxiety Mother or even Grandmother carried within their heart of hearts. I was in no way looking to place blame on either of them; if anything, I felt a certain sadness for what it must have been like for both of them during their childhoods.
I vividly recalled as a preschooler how, when I called her Mommy, she showered Ron, Stan, and me with endless love, attention, and anything we could wish for. At times, whenever Grandmother left from one of her visits, the four of us would celebrate. It was as if Grandmother was still a parental figure in Mommy’s house, and once she departed, Mom was able to do as she pleased. One time, when Grandmother was adamant about Mommy not allowing my brothers and me to play the game Twister for fear of us contorting ourselves into bone-snapping positions, Mom rolled out the plastic sheet and played with us the moment the front door closed. “Oh, don’t mind her,” Mommy cooed. “She doesn’t know how to play. Let’s have some fun!” Looking back, I thought perhaps some black hole from Mommy’s past had caught hold and sucked in all the goodness and any chance for her to relive her childhood. As a boy sleeping on an army cot, I had always prayed for “Mommy” to come back and rescue me from “The Mother.” I truly believed that “Mommy” would someday wake up, and once she did, all of us would forever live our lives as one perfect, happy family.
In some peculiar sense, I began to feel a certain pity for Mother. Did she, I wonder, have a happy childhood? Was Mother resentful toward Grandmother because of the way she was raised? If so, perhaps Mother became a hateful person because she had not dealt with her unresolved issues? Maybe Mother turned her back on her past, while hoping for the best in her future. Barely in my twenties, I already knew that unless a drastic change is made, the way a person is raised will most likely be the way that person will raise their children. For me it was not a matter of placing blame on Mother, or pointing the finger at my grandparents, but to ensure my freedom to live a life free of misery and despair. And I had to make certain whatever pushed Mommy into the abyss would not suck me in, too. I was still confused and, strangely enough, I still craved Mother’s acceptance. For now, all I could do was take Aunt Jane’s advice and get on with my life.
After more than two years of being a field cook, I was reassigned to the training section of the squadron, enabling me to work a basic eight-to-five schedule. No longer having to get up at three a.m. to put in ten to fourteen hours a day, let alone the hour drive to the work site each way, I welcomed the opportunity. The timing of my assignment was perfect. Since I desperately wanted to become an air crew member, I needed to take college classes. As a field cook, there was no way I could take time off even to register. But now I had all the time I needed.
Attempting to better myself through college courses after normal duty hours was frustrating. I had never taken anything beyond basic math while in high school before I dropped out, so fundamental algebra was way beyond my comprehension. Even one of the simplest rules—negative plus a negative equals a positive—was too hard for me to grasp; I could not understand the logic. Even after the instructor explained, “It just is,” like a broken record, the equation still did not add up for me. Because I could not apply the most basic of rules, I would spend hours trying to solve a single problem until I would literally bang my head against the desk.
Because I’d still mispronounce words at times and stutter when I became nervous, I’d spend hours in front of the mirror, studying the way I formed my lips as the sound came out. Due to my low self-esteem, I was terrified of girls, and had a complete lack of any social finesse, so I hardly ever went out with friends. I had always known the kind of person I was and where I fit in. It was as it had always been for me: break down the situation, analyze the different scenarios, make a decision about the problem at hand, and cut my losses the moment the issue looked hopeless. My life was black and white.
I got so far behind in class that the only thing I learned was how to curse myself for my stupidity. Part of me felt as if I were trying to become someone that I knew in my heart I wasn’t. I thought college classes were the big leagues. While everyone else seemed to pick up on the material, I became completely lost. I had always prided myself on knowing my limitations, and now I was in way over my head. Late one evening I asked myself out loud, “Who am I kidding?” I threw the math book against the wall and quit the class.
Initially, I was relieved. I was free of the mind-numbing pressures from the class. I spent my free evenings consuming books like Operation Overflight, written by the U-2 pilot Gary Powers, who was shot down over Russia. The U-2 was the product of the same engineer who designed the SR-71, Kelly Johnson. As I studied other books that pertained to unique jets constructed by this famed aeronautical wizard—Johnson formed his own division dubbed Skunk Works—I realized that in order to have even a remote chance of becoming an air crew member, I needed to return to college. To reaffirm this, I phoned an air crew boom operator who in midair refueled the SR-71 Blackbird, Sergeant D. K. Smith, who told me straight out that not only did the air force require advance courses in math, but the slots to become a boom operator were few and those who applied for the position fought for them with a ferocious intensity. The issue had come down to a simple matter of how badly did I want it, and was I willing to stick it out in order to achieve my dream.
It took two more attempts, and an instructor with the patience of a saint, for me to muddle through the material, until one day something clicked and I understood the hows and whys of algebra—everything suddenly made complete sense. I actually enjoyed solving equations. I regarded math as absolute—no maybes, no ifs, no letting things be and seeing if it works out somewhere down the road. X always equaled something. In math, and as I had always lived my life, there were no gray areas.
With the first hurdle behind me, I applied my efforts to advanced algebra, then tackled trigonometry. My instructors were outstanding. I began to build upon a good foundation, helping me grasp complicated equations with relative ease. My esteem began to take root. I lived in the breathtaking state of Florida, I spoiled myself by purchasing a monstrous motorcycle I owned free and clear, went through intensive prequalifications, and officially applied for a slot as an elite air crew member. I had a fantastic job and even completed rigorous training as a paratrooper. Ever so slowly, I was doing what I could to better myself. For once my efforts were beginning to pay off. Life was great. I felt as I had when I first entered foster care—every day was a precious gift.
One day, out of the blue, in the last few days of May 1983, I received a letter from my brother Russell. Since I had not been in direct contact with Grandmother for nearly three years, I wondered how Russell knew where to write me. As I sped through the letter, I had to force myself to slow down, so I could digest each word. I was thrilled to hear from one of my brothers, to hear from an actual family member. But as the con
tents of the letter began to sink in, I could feel my stomach turn. Russell’s letter confirmed what Grandmother had told me years ago, that after Father had passed away, Mother had moved and now lived just outside Salt Lake City. Russell also stated that before he died, Mother’s primary focus of malice was mainly directed at Father. As evil as Mother had been when I lived in her house, she seemed to have reached new levels of hatred. With Father gone and me removed, it appeared as if Russell had become the target of Mother’s rage.
I remembered one time when I was a foster child, I ran into Russell at a nearby school. By the haunted look on his face, I knew. While I was safely tucked away in the county’s protective arms, Mother must have been putting my brothers through hell. As a child, I lived with Mother for only twelve years, while my brothers had to endure her vindictiveness until they were at least eighteen.
My thoughts turned to Stan. In the letter, Russell wrote that he was worried about Stan, who had become financially dependent on Mother and was now resenting his situation. He was proud and wanted to be his own person. What, I wondered, if anything happened to Mother or Grandmother? What would become of Stan? What could I do?
Even my older brother, Ron, who had recently married, was not beyond Mother’s reach. The letter stated that although Ron and his wife, Linda, lived in Colorado, for Mother’s benefit they were only a phone call away. It was not hard to imagine Mother in the middle of one of her drunken binges, telephoning late in the evening and ranting for hours. Knowing Ron was still a military police officer in the army, I could envision him getting only a few hours of sleep before he had to go to work. This poor man, I thought, was bombarded from both sides. When did he ever get a moment of peace? How in the world was Ron able to tell Linda about Mother and the history of the family? If Mother kept to her pattern, she probably cleaned herself up for Linda, playing the role of the loving, overly gracious parental figure who lived the picture-perfect life. While Mother’s act may have worked for her years ago, it hardly seemed she could carry on with the charade any longer.
Thinking ahead, I promised myself that if I ever became involved with someone, I would have to protect her from the sickening relationship between Mother and me. Even if it meant going against everything I stood for, I would have to lie. In order to have a chance of a future with anyone special, I would have to bury my past.
At least Russell’s letter stated that Kevin, my youngest brother, had little idea of what had happened or what was going on around him now. For Kevin, Mother’s way of life and the hell that went with it were perfectly normal. In an odd sense I felt that Ron, Russell, and even Stan did what they could to shield their younger brother. If anything happened to Kevin, perhaps Grandmother could offer him safe refuge. As I reread the letter, I began to feel a deep remorse. All in all, without a doubt, I was the lucky one.
The letter ended with a positive statement. Russell would soon be enlisting in the Marine Corps. He seemed proud to join the elite force, and I felt that its camaraderie and values of duty and honor would serve Russell well. At the very least, getting as far away from Mother as possible would do Russell good. I smiled at the thought. Three down, two to go.
As the weeks passed, though, the letter from Russell gnawed at me. Every night as I unfolded the papers that I kept in my Bible, I’d reread the letter. Why, after so many years, had Russell written to me? What did he really want? What, if anything, could I do? After years of working myself stupid on my hopeless quest, I was just now getting a foothold on my life. As much as I still craved answers to my past, part of me did not give a damn. After years of feeling totally worthless, I was now the guy with the fancy motorcycle, with the chance of making something of myself by becoming an air crew member. Overall, I thought I was a good person: I worked hard, was self-reliant, kept to myself, stayed out of trouble, and did whatever I could to better myself. I had all anyone could ask for. As time passed, my childhood was increasingly becoming an illusion.
During one of these evening readings of Russell’s letter, I came to a realization. Though I knew my brothers were still exposed to Mother’s lifestyle, I, like my father at the time, remained passive to the situation. I never wrote anyone, called, or even mailed a simple Christmas card. After years of trying to fit in, it was I who had become reclusive. I had conveniently become nonexistent. Part of me wanted to tear up the letter in the same way I almost ripped up Father’s insurance papers. If I did, I would no longer have Russell’s letter tugging on my conscience. I would be saving myself by not being sucked in by my past. Closing my eyes, I clutched the letter. I took a deep breath, envisioning myself shredding it into tiny pieces. Suddenly my hands began to tremble. A wave of shame crashed over me. Opening my eyes, I broke down and cried. I ran the tips of my fingers down the length of the papers. After over ten years of exile, Russell’s letter was the only form of contact I had with my family. Maybe the letter was a subliminal open line to my brothers. The least I could do was keep it. For now all I could do was replace my brother’s letter in my Bible, and pray for the best.
Three months later, I took military leave for the first time in years, and after a short visit to the Turnboughs, I rode my motorcycle from the Bay Area nonstop to Salt Lake City. Although I would be staying with Grandmother, my intention was to spend as much time as possible with my brothers, and if all went as planned, I would finally come face to face with Mother. Over the last few months since Russell’s letter, Grandmother and I had established a fragile truce. Even though at times I was still her sounding board, Grandmother now treated me like an adult capable of making my own decisions. But before my journey, when I had told Grandmother of my intentions, I knew by her sarcastic reply that I had hit a raw nerve. I did not understand what I had said that set her off. As I drew nearer to Utah, I only hoped that Grandmother would not interfere for once. Perhaps spending time with her would not only help us grow closer, but maybe, just maybe, would shed some light on how Mother came to be the way she was. The answers were within my grasp. The only thing that was certain, as I raced my super bike toward the sun, was that I was heading into the heart of my childhood, and my life would be forever changed.
CHAPTER
7
FOOLISH CRUSADE
By the time I found Grandmother’s home in the midst of the trailer park, it was well past midnight. I repeatedly knocked on the door, but because of the late hour she had gone to bed. Being exhausted from the nonstop ride from California and frustrated from the built-up anticipation, all I could do was roll out my sleeping bag, which was strapped on the motorcycle, and sleep on one of the patio chairs on the deck.
The next morning I awoke to the sound of the sliding door opening. For years I had fantasized of greeting Grandmother with a warm embrace, as I had seen in so many movies, but before I could unzip my sleeping bag Grandmother was standing over me with her hands on her hips. “So, I see you made it,” she stated more than asked. “Sorry,” I yawned, rubbing my eyes, “it was a long drive.” I smiled as I stood close to Grandmother, then awkwardly leaned forward to hug her. For a second I thought she flinched. I gently held her, wrapping my long arms around her back. Although she returned the gesture, the hug seemed mechanical to me—it had no emotional significance. As Grandmother pulled back, I let go and followed her into her mobile home. An overwhelming scent brought back to me the days when Mother would bring Ron, Stan, and me over to Grandmother’s apartment in San Francisco, where we would spend the entire day decorating her artificial Christmas tree. My God, I thought. I must have been five, maybe six years old. After all those years Grandmother seemed to have the same pieces of furniture in the same perfect condition. I stood with my mouth open as my fingers ran over her piano. Grandmother’s house was like stepping into a time warp.
Still a whirlwind of energy in her seventies, Grandmother took me on a trip to the local bakery to purchase a few loaves of day-old bread, then a brief but spastic tour of the city in which her stop-and-start driving left me nauseous—pointing in
one direction, while flooring the accelerator and wheeling the car in a completely different direction. Afterward we both settled outside on her patio for lunch.
For whatever reason, I could not get myself to relax. All I could think about was not saying or doing anything that might make Grandmother upset. So far my visit was nothing like I had hoped for. I couldn’t even look at Grandmother’s face for more than a few seconds. I found myself turning away whenever I spoke. As I picked at my food, I realized that I was intimidated. Being with Grandmother in person was completely different than our relationship on the phone. In front of her, I was a pathetic child.
The situation became unbearable. Clearing my throat, I broke the ice by asking, “Are you still getting some good golf time in?”
By the flash in Grandmother’s eyes, I knew I opened with the right question. “Just last week I played a round with a general from Hill Air Force Base. He’s a general officer, you know. I asked if he knew you and, well, I guess there are so many of you soldiers—”