i hate that name.. ruby
i hate that gem
i have a lot of hate
distaste
anger
fear
sadness
im glad her name wasnt garnet.. thats a gem i really love
there's a picture of my grandfather down on one knee, that hereditary twinkle in his eye, with a basket of wild mushrooms at his feet. a tall heavyset stern hard looking man stands at his left.. his father-in-law, my great grandfather. a steamthresher.. farmer.. the father of i think 5 girls and 2 boys. i dont even know his name.
there's another picture. she is standing at a distance, hair shortish and unkempt.. blonde.. in overalls.. against a backdrop of flat ohio farmland. if i didnt know it was her, i would mistakenly think she looks.. nice.
they say the girls all possessed a mean streak. the boys.. well, one hung himself in the barn, and the other doesnt talk much. ruby was the one who took a pitchfork to the horses in the barn. her father caught her in the act.
ruby. i dont know much about her, yet i feel i know enough. mostly peripheral hearsay. i realize how unfair it is to judge her.. having never had an actual conversation with the woman. its too late now though. she died. she died after my ma took her in when she had nowhere else to turn. when she was left with bedsores, uncared for in a home.. my ma took her in. my ma gave her a comfortable place to wait to die. my ma.. the one child she would have given up for adoption because she wasnt the much wanted boy. the child she abused verbally and emotionally and physically. the child who she refused to acknowledge by name. the child she farmed out for weeks at a time to other family members when they needed a hand in the fields. the child who's husband she hit on. the child who was left unmentioned in her father's obituary.
this is all i know.
i know she abused the other 3 children too. her oldest escaped. my wild child aunt. my ma's favorite sister. everyone's favorite. three children out of wedlock. a glorious smile.. thrilled to have curly locks after the chemo. i remember my ma was crushed when she died.
the second daughter, the only surviving sibling.. depended on my ma for so much.. failed in school so she could be in the same grade.. such an unfortunate girl. abused to the point she became a mere shell of the person she might have one day become.
the son, 9 months younger than my ma. the golden son ruby wanted so badly. a gay hairdresser. oh, the irony in that is just too much.
when we were kids, ma had to take my brother to easter seals and the shriners for his prosthesis. my sister and i were often left with ruby and grandpa. we were left pretty much on our own. we played in the basement or rode bikes out on the paved driveway. i was too young to really remember much. my sister remembers very little.
i know my ma threw ruby out of our house when we were very young. told her if she couldnt control her mouth around her grandchildren, she wasnt welcome in our home. they never came back. my grandpa, the man who ruby threw butcher knives at, whom my ma adored, never once made any attempt to keep contact. no phone calls. no letters. no visits. no birthday cards.
just whispers among the many many relatives.
she had dysphonia. i remember her voice. i wish i could erase it. i see her sour wrinkled face and fake blonde hair. i blot her face out with images of my grandpa laughing.. eyes twinkling and tongue lolling out.. i hear his laugh.. i see him reaching in his pocket and pulling out a butterscotch for me.
i found my ma curled up in a ball in the closet. she read his obit in the paper. she didnt know he had died. no one called.
dad says ruby was thankful ma took her in. ma laid down the law and had words with her.. many many many words. i never came home to see her. she died and none of us went to her funeral. i got the phone call and that was that. i just didnt care. im fairly sure this disappointed my dad somehow. but he never said a word about it to me. he understood.
my sister said to me one day after ma passed. 'i dont want to have kids.' i asked her why, but i knew the answer. she was afraid. she wanted ma to be there.. and she was afraid of being like ruby. like there was some chance it was hereditary to be so.. awful... so... ugly.
the day of ma's funeral.. my aunt, the shell, the last left standing by her open casket.. turned to me and said the words my ma never would have wanted said. 'she looks so much like mother.' i know she meant it out of comfort.. but..
it took everything i had not to scream. not to drop to my knees and retch. instead, i took her hand and gently guided her out of the funeral home.
im done for now.
Friday, April 6, 2012
The Way We Treated People-Mr Scott
Mr Scott lived two doors down. His daughters went to my school. When I was nine, in the second grade, my brother and I returned Easter baskets to his house on a Sunday while his daughters and wife were at church. My brother, three years younger, played with a firetruck that squirted real water while Mr Scott played games with me like Hide and Seek and Make a Tent with the covers on this bed. I didn't like the games and wanted to go home. He didn't let us. Eventually, we went home. He gave us a candy bar each. I threw mine away.
I was quick to tell my folks who were enjoying a late morning together in bed. Every detail of the encounter, I shared with them. Every movement, every exposure, every invasion, I shared. I concentrated so much on telling the incidents, I remember very little about what looks and reactions must have taken place between my parents. They seemed calm and so, I was, too. We went to the doctor soon after, and I told the account again. I had some questions about what I had seen and asked them. Could a man have three penises? That's what it looked like when he opened his robe. But, I wasn't sure if the images I saw in the tri-fold mirror at his wife's make-up table, were accurate. The doctor had questions for me, too. And, I answered them.
Then, we did an exam like I had never had before. And it hurt more than anything Mr Scott had done. I knew what Mr.Scott did was wrong. It was not okay to touch me like he had. It was not okay to hold me on his lap and not let me go. He forced me to do things that I didn't want to do. That was wrong. He kept me in the closet and under the covers. That was wrong. He needed to be punished somehow.
When I went back to school after Easter vacation, his daughters told me to quit making up stories about their dad. They chased my brother and me home from school. Shortly thereafter, Mom told me she had a desperate call from my grandmother asking me to come and stay with her to take the edge off the loneliness she felt since grandpa had died in early February. So, I went to live with Grandma for the rest of the school year. I never realized the real reason I was sent away until I was an adult.
When I saw my family during this time, I asked about Mr. Scott and what would happen. I figured something legal would be done. He would be put in jail, right? I was willing to tell anyone about what he had done. He might do that to others. He had to be stopped. But, he continued to live in our town until after my Mom visited the store where he worked. She went in and left me outside in the truck. When she came back, she said she had talked to the owner of the store about Mr Scott. Soon after, Mr. Scott and his family moved out of town to another state. And, that was the end of that.
But, it wasn't the end in my mind. I was fraught with worry that somehow my telling of the story had not been good enough. Maybe that part about the three penises had made others think I was lying, as his daughters had screamed. Maybe he had convinced everyone it wasn't true. Why hadn't he been jailed? The doubts piled up.
My mother consoled me. Everyone believed me. He was evil incarnate. He was gone and would not come back. No need to worry. We didn't go to trial because the court wanted to protect me from having to appear! So, I asked tentatively, "Is it okay for me to hate him? I know we're not supposed to hate but, can I hate Mr. Scott?' "Oh! Yes...you can hate Mr. Scott," she replied. And, I did.
As an adult, I revisited this incident. I was still concerned that there was something more my nine-year-old self should have done. Mother was very reassuring. The doctor said he had never met a child who was so thorough in her descriptions or so precise with her words for everything that had happened. The rape kit had shown no penile penetration. I contracted no venereal diseases. Those had been big worries for my parents at the time. The courts had no way to hear a minor in a case like this. A trial had never been an option and 'proof' in the legal sense was not available, although there were pubic hairs and other indications of molestation. It just wasn't handled like that, then. So, instead, he was run out of town. His employer fired him. He moved to Nevada with his family. As an adult I had the facts. But, not the ending I needed.
Two years later he was imprisoned for thirty years in Nevada for forceful rape of a two year old child. I carried the guilt for not stopping him in our town, all the way to therapy thirty years later.
I'm thankful our treatment of sex offenders has changed so much in my lifetime. Thank God.
I was quick to tell my folks who were enjoying a late morning together in bed. Every detail of the encounter, I shared with them. Every movement, every exposure, every invasion, I shared. I concentrated so much on telling the incidents, I remember very little about what looks and reactions must have taken place between my parents. They seemed calm and so, I was, too. We went to the doctor soon after, and I told the account again. I had some questions about what I had seen and asked them. Could a man have three penises? That's what it looked like when he opened his robe. But, I wasn't sure if the images I saw in the tri-fold mirror at his wife's make-up table, were accurate. The doctor had questions for me, too. And, I answered them.
Then, we did an exam like I had never had before. And it hurt more than anything Mr Scott had done. I knew what Mr.Scott did was wrong. It was not okay to touch me like he had. It was not okay to hold me on his lap and not let me go. He forced me to do things that I didn't want to do. That was wrong. He kept me in the closet and under the covers. That was wrong. He needed to be punished somehow.
When I went back to school after Easter vacation, his daughters told me to quit making up stories about their dad. They chased my brother and me home from school. Shortly thereafter, Mom told me she had a desperate call from my grandmother asking me to come and stay with her to take the edge off the loneliness she felt since grandpa had died in early February. So, I went to live with Grandma for the rest of the school year. I never realized the real reason I was sent away until I was an adult.
When I saw my family during this time, I asked about Mr. Scott and what would happen. I figured something legal would be done. He would be put in jail, right? I was willing to tell anyone about what he had done. He might do that to others. He had to be stopped. But, he continued to live in our town until after my Mom visited the store where he worked. She went in and left me outside in the truck. When she came back, she said she had talked to the owner of the store about Mr Scott. Soon after, Mr. Scott and his family moved out of town to another state. And, that was the end of that.
But, it wasn't the end in my mind. I was fraught with worry that somehow my telling of the story had not been good enough. Maybe that part about the three penises had made others think I was lying, as his daughters had screamed. Maybe he had convinced everyone it wasn't true. Why hadn't he been jailed? The doubts piled up.
My mother consoled me. Everyone believed me. He was evil incarnate. He was gone and would not come back. No need to worry. We didn't go to trial because the court wanted to protect me from having to appear! So, I asked tentatively, "Is it okay for me to hate him? I know we're not supposed to hate but, can I hate Mr. Scott?' "Oh! Yes...you can hate Mr. Scott," she replied. And, I did.
As an adult, I revisited this incident. I was still concerned that there was something more my nine-year-old self should have done. Mother was very reassuring. The doctor said he had never met a child who was so thorough in her descriptions or so precise with her words for everything that had happened. The rape kit had shown no penile penetration. I contracted no venereal diseases. Those had been big worries for my parents at the time. The courts had no way to hear a minor in a case like this. A trial had never been an option and 'proof' in the legal sense was not available, although there were pubic hairs and other indications of molestation. It just wasn't handled like that, then. So, instead, he was run out of town. His employer fired him. He moved to Nevada with his family. As an adult I had the facts. But, not the ending I needed.
Two years later he was imprisoned for thirty years in Nevada for forceful rape of a two year old child. I carried the guilt for not stopping him in our town, all the way to therapy thirty years later.
I'm thankful our treatment of sex offenders has changed so much in my lifetime. Thank God.
The Way We Treated People-Trey and Bobby
Bobby was my boyfriend. I was pretty sure about that. Each morning as I got off my bike at the schoolyard, he was there to greet me. He was a patrol guard. As sixth graders we took positions of responsibility around the school. He was there to remind us to walk our bikes from the gate, across the playground grass and into the bike rack! I always had a lot of books with me. They were carefully balanced on the bike fender tray but, when walking the bike they would be unbalanced, so I had to carry them. It was hard to navigate the bike and carry the books, too. So, Bobby and I would talk until the warning bell when he was free to dutifully carry my books while I escorted my Schwinn. He didn't do this for the other girls. So, it was official. We were a couple. Actually, a threesome because wherever Bobby went, Trey went also. They were best friends.
They were always together. They shared a sense of humor and intelligence. They took me into their friendship. It was a heady and exciting time. We were all twelve and we all clicked! We laughed and joked together. After school we rode our bikes to the drugstore and got treats. Sometimes, Bobby paid for mine. Trey was never a third wheel though. He was part of Bobby's friendship. A funny and good part.
Bobby got in the habit of picking me up at my house before school and then we would ride together to meet up with Trey. Bobby had his job at the gate and, soon we all chatted, laughed, and stood around, reminding everyone else to walk their bikes. Then Bobby would help me with my books. As romances go in the sixth grade, ours was standard for the times. Once in awhile, we held hands. It was very innocent and lively. I was learning how to talk to boys. And, vice-versa, I suppose.
Sadly, the end to the idyll was nearer than we could have imagined. Soon, we would learn a harsh lesson from my grandmother who lived next door...
One morning, I was surprised when both Bobby and Trey came to pick me up for school. Trey had stayed overnight with Bobby and so we rode to school together that day. When I got home in the afternoon, I was told to go see my grandmother. My mother's mother was special to me. I had actually lived with her by myself for two months after my grandfather died. My mother had explained I was there because she was so lonely and needed someone to be with her. She was a wonderfully caring and benevolent lady for whom I felt great love.
"Thank you for coming over, Sharon. I have something of great importance to discuss with you", she began. I sat rapt with attention and the obedience of my upbringing. "I noticed boys came to get you for school today..."
"Yes, Grandma. Those are my friends Bobby and Trey."
"Oh, yes," she replied, "I know Bobby's mother from the Club, but I don't know that other one."
"Oh, that's Trey, Bobby's friend," I helpfully informed her.
"Well, Child, he's not to come again to pick you up. And, you musn't be seen with him."
Completely surprised by this news, I asked, "Why? What's wrong with him?"
She seemed equally surprised and flustered to have to justify her decision to me but proceeded on, "Haven't you ever noticed, he's different?"
Completely puzzled and needing more information I said, "No. How is he different? I don't know what you mean?"
Exasperated, she responded, "Well, he lives on the other side of the tracks...Didn't you ever notice he goes home a different way from you? He's different. We don't mix with his kind of people. Do you understand?"
There was a finality about her statement so I nodded and was dismissed.
At home, I confronted my mother. "What is grandma talking about?" I asked. She asked for a verbatim recall of the conversation and began to laugh. "Oh, Sharon, your grandmother is an old lady with some old ideas. She doesn't want you having Trey come to this neighborhood and be seen with you."
I still didn't understand why. "Why?" I demanded. My mother exhaled, looked me in the eye and said, "Because he is a Negro, his skin is black. It doesn't make a difference. But, to your grandma it does. She comes from a different time. When she grew up her parents believed black people were very different."
Thank goodness mother was explaining all this to me. Obviously, my friend Trey was no different than me or Bobby. It was so obvious...how silly my grandmother couldn't see that. My mom knew that was ridiculous...and then she said something that shocks me still. "You better do as your grandma says. It's best for everyone."
So, I told Bobby not to pick me up in the morning anymore. When he asked why, I said it was because my grandma did not like boys hanging around. Even then, I knew the reason my grandma gave was hurtful and wrong. So, I never voiced it. Something else changed, too. Soon after, there was a big fight during recess between Bobby and Trey. I didn't see it but everyone was talking about it. What was the fight about, I asked everyone. They were hazy on the details. Words! A word. Bobby called Trey a word that caused the fight and broke their friendship. I never knew exactly what that word was for a long time...
Now I see it on DMT...My goodness how words have changed in sixty years...and people? Hmmm?
They were always together. They shared a sense of humor and intelligence. They took me into their friendship. It was a heady and exciting time. We were all twelve and we all clicked! We laughed and joked together. After school we rode our bikes to the drugstore and got treats. Sometimes, Bobby paid for mine. Trey was never a third wheel though. He was part of Bobby's friendship. A funny and good part.
Bobby got in the habit of picking me up at my house before school and then we would ride together to meet up with Trey. Bobby had his job at the gate and, soon we all chatted, laughed, and stood around, reminding everyone else to walk their bikes. Then Bobby would help me with my books. As romances go in the sixth grade, ours was standard for the times. Once in awhile, we held hands. It was very innocent and lively. I was learning how to talk to boys. And, vice-versa, I suppose.
Sadly, the end to the idyll was nearer than we could have imagined. Soon, we would learn a harsh lesson from my grandmother who lived next door...
One morning, I was surprised when both Bobby and Trey came to pick me up for school. Trey had stayed overnight with Bobby and so we rode to school together that day. When I got home in the afternoon, I was told to go see my grandmother. My mother's mother was special to me. I had actually lived with her by myself for two months after my grandfather died. My mother had explained I was there because she was so lonely and needed someone to be with her. She was a wonderfully caring and benevolent lady for whom I felt great love.
"Thank you for coming over, Sharon. I have something of great importance to discuss with you", she began. I sat rapt with attention and the obedience of my upbringing. "I noticed boys came to get you for school today..."
"Yes, Grandma. Those are my friends Bobby and Trey."
"Oh, yes," she replied, "I know Bobby's mother from the Club, but I don't know that other one."
"Oh, that's Trey, Bobby's friend," I helpfully informed her.
"Well, Child, he's not to come again to pick you up. And, you musn't be seen with him."
Completely surprised by this news, I asked, "Why? What's wrong with him?"
She seemed equally surprised and flustered to have to justify her decision to me but proceeded on, "Haven't you ever noticed, he's different?"
Completely puzzled and needing more information I said, "No. How is he different? I don't know what you mean?"
Exasperated, she responded, "Well, he lives on the other side of the tracks...Didn't you ever notice he goes home a different way from you? He's different. We don't mix with his kind of people. Do you understand?"
There was a finality about her statement so I nodded and was dismissed.
At home, I confronted my mother. "What is grandma talking about?" I asked. She asked for a verbatim recall of the conversation and began to laugh. "Oh, Sharon, your grandmother is an old lady with some old ideas. She doesn't want you having Trey come to this neighborhood and be seen with you."
I still didn't understand why. "Why?" I demanded. My mother exhaled, looked me in the eye and said, "Because he is a Negro, his skin is black. It doesn't make a difference. But, to your grandma it does. She comes from a different time. When she grew up her parents believed black people were very different."
Thank goodness mother was explaining all this to me. Obviously, my friend Trey was no different than me or Bobby. It was so obvious...how silly my grandmother couldn't see that. My mom knew that was ridiculous...and then she said something that shocks me still. "You better do as your grandma says. It's best for everyone."
So, I told Bobby not to pick me up in the morning anymore. When he asked why, I said it was because my grandma did not like boys hanging around. Even then, I knew the reason my grandma gave was hurtful and wrong. So, I never voiced it. Something else changed, too. Soon after, there was a big fight during recess between Bobby and Trey. I didn't see it but everyone was talking about it. What was the fight about, I asked everyone. They were hazy on the details. Words! A word. Bobby called Trey a word that caused the fight and broke their friendship. I never knew exactly what that word was for a long time...
Now I see it on DMT...My goodness how words have changed in sixty years...and people? Hmmm?
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