Yup, it was my life.

The Lie

2011-12-06T14:43:00.002-07:00

I have told a lie for 35 years.
I have told it numerous times, so many in fact that I had almost forgotten the truth.

Here is the truth.

When was 15 we moved to a new neighborhood. Again.
I was in 9th grade and I was at my 3rd school that year having left the friends had managed to make the past 5 months. There was only 3 months of junior high left and I missed my friends.

Since we had no phone at home I spent a lot of my time at the convenience store half a block away using the pay phone to call my friends. This continued through the summer until we moved that fall.

Because of my spending so much time at the store I got to know not only the employees but the regulars as well. There was one guy that used to came in often, for cigarettes mostly. I have forgotten his name now but he was in his mid twenties, 5’9”-ish, thin. He had a beautiful face and an intense presence. I was interested right away. Over time we came to smile say Hi and learned each others names.

One summer day he asked me if I wanted to get high. Without delay I agreed, I loved getting high. I love the distance it created between me and the world, I was happy for the invite.

We walked the three and a half blocks up 6th Ave to his apartment. He lived on the third floor of a building that was built in the 60’s, the kind than looks like a motel. His apartment was at the top of the stairs. During the walk he I learned that he had been in Vietnam and that he chain smoked.

His apartment was a one bedroom with a galley kitchen, and as I expected, had cheap not matching furniture. What did surprise me was how clean his place was. Everything had its place and was in it. His decorations were mostly mementos he had brought back from Nam.

Without sitting down he reached under the couch and pulled out a shoebox lid with loose weed and a couple of already rolled joints. He plucked one out lit it, took a couple of hits and handed it to me where I sat on the couch. Without sitting down, he began showing me all his Vietnam memorabilia. He was moving around non-stop, chain smoking, unable to be still. I realized that he was already high, wired on something else. He was agitated and manic and I was immediately uncomfortable and knew I needed to get out of there.

I waited a few minutes then said I had to go. He quickly said no, that he wanted to show me something and went off to the bedroom muttering to himself. I stood up and stared to the door. My intent was to have the door open so I could leave as soon as he was back. As I started to toward the door I heard a sound from the bedroom that I recognized from the movies, it sent adrenaline through my body, my new plan was to just leave. No goodbye.

I didn’t make it to the door, he was back in a second and had a sword. A long curved Vietnamese sword. The sound I heard was it coming out of its sheath. I stood there admiring it as he told me about its easy capabilities to do physical damage to the human form.

Once more I said I had to leave, again he said no and that he wanted to show me something in the bedroom. He grabbed my wrist and still holding the sword, took me to the bedroom. Again everything was cheap, clean and in its place. Again everything was decorated with items from about Vietnam.

I was standing by the door, at the foot of the bed, he had let go of my hand and pointed out a flag on the wall and told me a story about it, a story I didn’t really hear since I was desperately trying to think of a way to get out of his apartment.

He suddenly turned and with his free hand grabbed me around the waist and kissed me. Now mind you this was something I wanted to do for some time, kiss him, but not his way. Not with me feeling trapped in his apartment, not with him holding a sword, not with me feeling scared. There was nothing nice about this kiss, it was hard and demanding. I could feel his erection pressing against me, I couldn’t think of a way out. As long as he had the sword he had an additional 3 foot reach that prevented me from getting away. I knew there was no way to outrun the reach of that sword.

Still holding the sword he pushed me to the bed. The edge of the mattress hit the back of my knees, and feet remaining on the floor, I fell backward onto the bed. He was next to me in an instant. The sword was still in his hand, on the bed just above my head. My objective changed, I knew there was no way out of the sex, I just wanted out without getting seriously hurt or even killed, which had became my immediate fear.

He then pushed his running shorts down to expose himself and rolled on top of me. He slid the crouch of my shorts to one side and raped me. It was over quickly and he rolled off of me onto his back to catch his breath. At some point he had finally let go of the sword.

I immediately stood up and said I needed to go to the bathroom. As I headed out of he room I heard him tell me to wait. I didn’t. I ran to the front door, unlocked the bolt and threw the door wide open and started running down the stairs. My fear was exploding in me and and adrenaline was now pumping through my body, all I could hear was my own pulse thudding in my ears. I ran all the way home.

Although I have told parts of the story before, I had never told about the rape. Never. Not to anyone. “MY” story is a cautionary tale of what could happen. In “MY” story I escape. In “MY” story I am my own heroine. “MY” story has always been the cover-up for the guilt I felt for having been somewhere I shouldn’t have been. For going into a stranger’s house to get high with him. For not being as grown as I thought I was. Mostly, for not protecting myself.

Recently I was watching a movie in which a 14 year old girl was rapped in a situation similar to mine. “MY” story fell apart in my mind and for the first time I cried about what had happened to the the 15 year old girl I once was.

Although I had intellectually known I didn’t “deserve” it, I had still believed that some of the blame was mine for being where I was at the time. I had never said no to him since I as afraid that it would escalate the situation dangerously. Seeing that rape acted out of film, for some reason, freed me. Seeing her innocence and trust, understanding my innocence and trust, I was finally able to forgive myself for not saving myself from being raped. My relief is immeasurable.

Looking back with adult eyes, I am now confident that even though I did nothing to stop it, it was rape. He silenced my voice through intimidation as completely as if he had his hand over my mouth. I was my own heroine in that I played the best cards dealt at the time and I got out from what had all the potential of becoming a much worse situation. Finally, 35 years later, my guilt, shame and embarrassment are gone.

Thirtyfive years later, my truth is back, my lie is gone.

Author’s note:

I know some of you were uncomfortable hearing my story.

According to a poll taken by the Colorado Dept of Health, 24% of women and 7% of men admitted being victims of sexual violence. That is in line with the rest of the United States.

What do those numbers really mean?
Colorado’s population is about 5 million. So over 1 million people in Colorado have admitted to being victims of sexual violence.

One million people. That is the is populations of Denver, Aurora and Centennial combined. Yet the subject of Rape is still a taboo topic not meant for “polite” company. Much like Breast Cancer once was.

My goal in sharing my story is to begin making change. I want to start opening communication and bring this topic that affects so many people out so we can begin to help those who's voices are silenced by the shame that secrecy brings.

It is my dream that one day “shame” is longer listed as an effect of rape and that no one else ever have to lie about their truth again.

If you or someone you know is in need of someone to talk to about a sexual violence incident, please contact Rape Awareness And Assistance (RAAP) @ 303-322-7273

Thank you

Miss Substitute

2011-08-16T17:35:00.004-06:00

One of the best things about school was substitute teachers.

Especially in elementary school where you had them all day. But you never really expected to learn much when a substitute was there. The days with substitutes were like free days, especially if your teacher was out unexpectedly. No lesson plans prepared, no instructions to follow, that substitute was on her own.

Her own. Not HIS own. Aside from gym teachers or principles, I never had a male teacher in elementary school. Not once. I remember having male teachers for the first time in junior high at Smiley. It was so strange and kind of fun, something new to the old mix. Until I realized that they were just the same as the female teachers. Some were nice, some were strict, some enjoyed teaching, some were unfair, some were funny and some hated their jobs. And like all teachers, some days they were "absent" and those days were usually a bit more fun.

When I was in 5th grade at Wyatt Elementary we always knew when our teacher Ms Silberberg was going to be out because she told us ahead of time. She always let us know that she expected our best behavior while she was gone and wanted the hear good reports back from the substitute teacher. And for the most part we did our best to make her proud. But there is always an exception.

One morning when we arrived to class Ms. Silberberg unexpectedly wasn't there. No teacher was. After the tardy bell rang someone from the office came and told us that Ms Silberberg wouldn't be in and that a substitute teacher was on the way. We were told to sit quietly, to start studying our spelling words. Also the classroom door would be left open and there was not to be any noise coming out of the classroom. The office assistant then left.

"Study your spelling words."
This was probably the worst thing we could have been asked to do.
We didn't all study the same spelling list but had individual lists according to our ability that were kept in folders in a bin behind Ms Silberberg's desk.

These simple instructions, that must have sounded great to the office assistant as she said them to us, created a flurry of activity and caused 30 students to try to cram themselves into a 3 foot by 2 foot area all trying to simultaneously go through a stack of folders looking for the one with their name. It would have been more accurate if the office worker had yelled "LET THE GAMES BEGIN!" We were smart enough however to be quiet during all the pushing, shoving, blocking and teasing that went on and eventually we all made to desks around the room. Literally.

When we did well as a class, we were allowed to put our desks anywhere we wanted in the room and sit by whoever we wanted. As a class our preferred placement was around the perimeter of the room, against the walls. This allowed for the rug that Ms Silberberg had brought to be placed in the middle of the room. Some students faced their desks into the center of the room, some faced the walls. If we misbehaved our punishment was being placed into rows alphabetically "old school" style.

On this day are desks were around the room and we were sitting everywhere, but where we belonged, "studying" when the substitute came in. She was white, older (30's), short, had a small frame and a towering red beehive, my first thought was she just came off the show Hee Haw. She was clearly uncomfortable in this Black and Hispanic school. Her nervousness was palatable to the class and looks shot around the room immediately. This would be fun.

Miss Substitute came in and went directly to Ms Silberberg's desk in the back of the room and started looking for a lesson plan as we watched. No luck, there was no lesson plan. Her eyes briefly went around the room and she asked what we were supposed to be working on. Everyone answered at once. Some said what we normally worked on at that time, some answered spelling like the office assistant told us, some lied different things just for the fun of it. One enterprising classmate said recess.

Miss Substitute looked nervously back to the desk, most likely hoping that magically the lesson plan had appeared when Maria pointed out roll hadn't been taken yet. Grateful to have something concrete to do Miss Substitute got the Attendance Book and started down the list of names. This became another fun game for us as she mispronounced most of the names. Trujillo became True-jill-o; Belia became Beel-i-a, by the time she came to Maura, I yelled out the correct pronunciation before she said something that would become a nickname that I wouldn't be able to shake. We were laughing and teasing and enjoying roll like never before.

With attendance finally over and she asked again what we should be working on, Armando pointed out we didn't know her name. Miss Substitute walked up to the blackboard at the front of the room and as she went past him, Armondo shot a spit wad at that big red beehive, and it stuck. Everyone burst out laughing, Miss Substitute wrote her rather unmemorable Anglo name on the board, then turned and asked again what we should be studying. Marylin then said that Arthur wasn't in his seat.

That information brought forth even more commotion as Miss Substitute started trying to get everyone to his or her correct seat. After more time than it should have taken, everyone was in their own seat and Miss Substitute had amassed a sizable collection of rolled up pieces of paper and pencil erasers in her big red beehive. As she had gone around the room getting students to move, the boys had picked up on Armondo's idea and it became open season on big red beehives. No licence needed. Finally everyone was at their desks but there was just one problem, Randy was sitting on his desk, back against the wall feet on the seat, not in it. Miss Substitute walked over to Randy's desk and told him to sit down. "I am." he replied while looking at her straight in the eye.

Randy was tall in 5th grade, about 5' 5" a good two inches taller than Miss Substitute, and even while sitting on the desk still taller than her. Miss Substitute told him to sit in the seat. Randy didn't say a word, he continued his eye-lock with her, folded his arms across his chest, and tilted his head to the left. His body language screamed "Make me". For the first time since Miss Substitute came in the room it was quiet. Really quiet. No one moving a muscle quiet.

Miss Substitute gathered all her authority and asked in her most threatening voice "What is your name?"
The room erupted in a chorus of "Randy!", "His name is Randy!", "That's Randy!"
But Randy didn't answer, he just continued to stare at Miss Substitute and when it quieted down he slowly started spelling, "R-A-N-D-Y."
Miss Substitute started trembling, just a bit, and as Randy continued spelling she was either unable or unwilling to take her eyes off him, she stood there staring at him as he finished.

I was sitting next to Randy, my desk facing into the room, so I could see Miss Substitute's face, and just as Randy finished spelling his name, I saw Miss Substitute's complete fear and watched as her eyes fill with tears. This was no longer funny, I knew it and from the shift I saw on Randy's face, he knew it too. The class was now officially out of control.

Without losing face in front of the class Randy broke the stare down by laughing and plopped into his seat. The class, not having seen the fear or potential tears, or realizing Randy's conceding, started laughing too. Miss Substitute regained her composure as she walked back to Ms Silberberg's desk. Randy and I were the only two not laughing at that point. We looked at each other silently acknowledging that things had gone dangerously too far.

As Miss Substitute got to the desk I called out the subject we were suppose to be working on, by then our fourth subject of the day, and just as Miss Substitute was finally going to teach us something, the classroom door opened and Ms Silberberg came in. There was a spontaneous cheer from all the students and some of the girls rushed up to hug her. It seemed Randy and I weren't the only ones feeling things were out of control.

Ms Silberberg looked around the room a little shocked at the reception. "Well hello everyone." she said.
She then looked down at the girls and while smiling asked, "May I come in the room?"
During this time Miss Substitute had gathered her things and with no delay, goodbye or even a glance at us, she headed out the door.

I never really expected to learn much on a day with a substitute.
But there is always an exception.
On that day, though I already knew the word, I learned compassion.

The non-musical sounds that I love

2011-08-14T11:58:00.003-06:00

Train whistle at night
Clock tower striking
Breathing of a sleeping baby
Sheets gently blowing on the clothesline
Wind chimes
Heavy diner plate being set on a Formica table
Puppy grunts
Wind blowing through the trees
Rain on the roof
The lack of sound on a snow covered night
Ocean waves

Runner

2011-07-10T16:03:00.007-06:00

While I played tough in school, I really got into only a couple of fights and those were over quickly and without much to-do. There was one time however when I seriously wanted to killed someone.

My favorite class in school was Gym. I loved it. I was tomboy and a natural athlete. Tall for my age, skinny but strong and fast. My eye-hand coordination was good and I would try anything, and give it my all. I could beat all the girls and most of the boys in sports.

In 5th grade I was at Wyatt and there was only one person who could run faster than me in the whole school. Randy Randolph. We were in the same class and none of the other students could outrun us, including the 6th graders. I had an on again/off again crush on him my entire time at Wyatt. Randy was tall for his age, taller than all of the students and most of the teachers. At 10 years old he was 5’5’’ and had the longest legs you ever saw. I was sure his long legs were the reason I wasn’t the fastest runner in school.

Our class was lucky, we had Gym in the afternoon which made the last half of the day go faster. One sunny afternoon when softball was the curriculum, I was standing on first base waiting to run. I really wasn’t paying that close of attention to the batter since it was one of the kids that didn't hit that well and I was expecting him to strike out. I was looking around knowing that if I heard the crack of the bat I would have plenty of time to run. A car slowly drove by the school, music blasting and I looked up to see if it was my brother or one of his friends so I could wave but it wasn't. As I was turning to look at the batter I felt a huge explosion of pain in my chest and an instant later heard a thump at my feet. I looked down confused by both the pain and the sound and saw a softball at my feet. In an instant I knew two things.
One: That the pitcher, Orlando Hall, had just hit me in the chest with the softball. Orlando Hall who I also had an on again/off again crush on had HIT ME WITH A SOFTBALL!
Two: I was going to kill him.

I looked up from the ball to the pitcher's mound just as all the the students started a choir of "Oooooo..".
Orlando and I looked at each other. What I saw was his shocked face, mouth hanging open. What he saw was my anger. We looked at each other for half a second before he turned and started running and I gave chase. He ran toward the corner of the field, where the exit from the school grounds was. I figured he was running for home but I knew I could catch him before he got there, I could always catch Orlando, he was fast, but no Randy. He didn't go out the gate but made a sharp right turn. Bad move, that would allow me to cut to the right and close the distance more quickly and he would be trapped on one side by the fence.

There was a symphony of sounds. My blood pounding in my ears, sneakers in the gravel, Orlando yelling he was sorry, all the boys yelling for Orlando to run faster, all the girls yelling for me to run faster. Then through all of that, just as I was closing in on him, I heard the gym teacher's voice clearly and forcefully telling me to stop or I would would be sent to the Principle. I realized that she was giving chase too, as was the rest of the class. Orlando also heard the teacher's voice and started making his way around toward her. I was about to catch him but it would be just as he reached her. Orland ran behind the teacher grabbing her arms intending to use her as a human shield if needed.

There was much confusion during the next few minutes. All the kids yelling and laughing, Orlando yelling at me he was sorry he didn't mean to hit me, me yelling at Orlando of course he meant it since he hit me in the chest, the teacher yelling for Orlando to let go of her and yelling at the the rest of us to stop yelling and calm down.

The end result? I let Orlando live.

Apparently he though I was going to steal second base, something I had never done (something we didn't do in 5th grade softball) and turned and threw the ball to the boy covering first base who was not only behind me but paying even less attention to the game than I was.
No one was sent to the Principle.
After the swelling and redness went away I ended up with a small bruise under my collarbone and I have always been grateful that the ball didn't hit my face.

I think that in those few moments running for his life, Orlando was the fastest runner in the school.

Things I learned from my Mother

2011-04-30T13:09:00.004-06:00

Don't discriminate
A love of reading
Even if you don't agree, be polite
A sense of humor
Words have power
Politics
Women are equal to men
Stand up for what you believe in
It's never too late to learn to cook
Push back against the powers that be if needed
Women us the F word
Swear words are just words
Protect people who can't protect themselves
If you don't pay your bills, bad things happen
"Famous" people are just people
Be respectful

Neighborhood Games

2011-03-08T19:57:00.000-07:00

Hide-n-Seek
Kick the Can
Green Ghost
Tag
Freeze Tag
TV Tag
Red Light Green Light
Statue
Two Square
Hopscotch

It's a God Thing

2011-02-18T23:24:00.004-07:00

There are so many memories, but so few of my Dad. And one vivid one of my Father. My dad left when I was 4 and by then his diseases had taken him over. The bipolar disorder, alcoholism and his childhood had formed this man into someone who was almost never pleasant to be around. But there were those times when a father’s instinct came through.

In 1964 I was 3 years old and as Mad Men has shown us, most of the adults in America smoked. My mom and dad included. We were living in a rented house on York Street in Capital Hill. It was an old red brick two story home, bedrooms and bath upstairs; it had a brick front porch and a small wooden back one. If you go to look for it now you won’t find it. It was torn down years ago and like a lot of older homes in Capital Hill, was replaced by an apartment building. But for part of 1964 it was home to my mom, dad, brother, 2 of my sisters and me.

Dad smoked Pall Malls, no filter. A man’s cigarette if there ever was one. I don’t really remember what mom smoked then but later it was Kools, then Benson and Hedges menthol. That was the brand she stayed with until she was diagnosed with emphysema. In 1964 there must have been an ashtray in every room of every house in America because smoking was a continual thing then, and for someone like my dad, already an addictive type, he always had one. Sitting, standing, walking, driving, reading, watching TV. Always.

One winter night in 1964, at the house on York Street, my dad was in the upstairs hallway, leaning against the doorjamb of my brother’s bedroom. He was casually propped there, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette down by his side. I was upstairs too and for some reason, probably for no reason other than I was 3, running. I turned the corner of the hallway; in what I am sure to this day was the fastest any three year old took a corner, right into dad’s lit cigarette. Not only did I run into his lit cigarette, I collided into it with my open eye.

I don’t really remember much of what immediately followed, but my dad’s parental nature kicked in and he rushed to get “the baby” help. I do I remember being outside looking down as if floating above the back porch. I hear the screen door slam open and from above I see dad starting down the wooden steps heading to the car, carrying me wrapped in a blanket. I hear my mother’s voice calling out that I wasn’t wearing shoes. As he reached the car my dad calls back that it doesn’t matter he will be carrying me, my mother rushes out hurrying to catch up with us.

There is a vague memory of sitting in the Doctors office and of getting an eye patch. And a very clear memory of getting a candy cane. Not a little cane shaped one that hangs on a tree. No this was one of those big ones that is like a little club in my tiny hand. I forget about my eye patch and two thoughts go through my mind as the doctor gives it to me. One, it was already late, how would I finish it before having to go to bed? Two, my siblings would be jealous. My parents take me home, I never need my shoes.

Years later I learn that I have an unrelated eye condition which causes my eyes to fatigue and the weaker one to no longer focus correctly, when this happens I see double. I have been wearing prescription glasses as treatment for 20 years now. When visiting a neurologist three years ago, he asked how long I had this eye condition. I told him since childhood. He looked shocked and told me I was lucky I wasn’t blind. Apparently when you have this condition as a child your brain is not developed enough to understand the double vision and will try to correct it, but it can’t. Eventually the brain will stop allowing information from either eye and you are blind. He told me the treatment in childhood is to wear an eye patch over the weak eye to stop it from getting tired, and then confusing the brain.

I ran into that cigarette with my weaker eye.
And my father carried me.
I am not blind in that eye because the scar is over my iris.
And my Father carried me.
I wore an eye patch over my weaker eye.
And my father carried me.
I am not completely blind today because I ran into a lit cigarette when I was three.....and my Father carried me.

I believe that everything happens for a reason.
Sometimes you get to know why, and sometimes you don’t.
But why or not, here is the one thing I do know, a God Thing when I see it.

Toys I had while growing up...

2011-02-16T19:54:00.003-07:00

Silly Putty
Lincoln Logs
Hot Wheels
Legos
Paper Dolls
Mr Potato Head
Gumby
Play-Doh
Troll Dolls
Marbles
Etch a Sketch
Squirt Gun
Clackers
Slinky
Jacks
Matchbox Cars
Jump Rope

It's what I don't remember

2011-02-15T00:11:00.005-07:00

Post-traumatic stress disorder: An anxiety disorder that can develop after exposure to any event that results in psychological trauma.

Dissociation: Partial or complete disruption of the normal integration of a person’s conscious or psychological functioning. Dissociation can be a response to trauma …[it] allows the mind to distance itself from experiences that are too much for the psyche to process at that time.

These are the words that define my childhood.
These are two of the obstacles that challenge me because of my childhood.
These are two definitions that explain so much and so little at the same time.

Memories. So subjective.
Multiple witnesses to the same event can remember entirely different things.

What I remember, what I know, is looking down a long hallway. It is night, I am in my nightgown, and I am alone in the dark hallway. On one side of the hall, a little behind me is my sisters’ bedroom, the door is open and the lights are out. On the other side of the hall a little ahead of me is my brother’s room, the door closed. I don’t see either room though; I am looking down the hall into the living room.

The light is on. I can see the side of the console TV, an end table with a lamp on it, part of the couch, and my father beating my mother. I don’t hear a thing. No sound at all. I am shaking; I don’t know what to do. Of course at 4 years old there is really nothing I can do. I realize I am crying, I don’t hear that either but that is because I am not making a sound, just quietly crying. He stops hitting her; and starts choking her. Her arm flails and knocks the lamp off the table. I hear the glass break.

The next thing I remember is being in bed with my sister CAS, pressed up against her back, shaking from all the adrenalin pumping through my little body. That is all I remember of that night. I don’t remember the police coming; I don’t remember my father being arrested.

Years later I am talking to CAS about that night. Her memory is different than mine. I am surprised she has a memory at all; I thought she slept through it.

She is standing in the same dark hallway; she sees the same room I do, the same furniture, the same beating. The noise brought her from her bed, but she doesn’t remember me standing there. She sees dad choking mom. She sees mom’s hand knock the lamp over. Then she screams. She realizes immediately that this was a mistake and runs and gets back in bed. Alone. Our mom comes in and tells her “Your father wants to see you.” CAS goes into the living room and my father tells her “You wanted to see this, now watch.” He then starts hitting mom again. CAS remembers the police coming, she remembers dad being arrested.

So what I remembered, what I had know, is not entirely complete, or correct. I was not against CAS’s back like I remember, but TJS’. This is a shock to me. For some reason more shocking than not remembering CAS being in the hall or screaming. It shocks me because I do remember being in her bed, underneath the covers, face against her back, trembling. But now I remember the wall behind my back as well. And I am on my right side. And this is not possible in CAS’ bed. If I am on my right side with a wall behind me than I am on the other side of the room; in the other bed, against TJS’s back. I remember it so clearly now. CAS' memory has triggered mine.

However to this day, I do not remember CAS being in the hallway or her scream. It must have been that scream that got me out of the hall. I do not remember mom coming in the bedroom even though I was there. No, I still don’t remember any of it, even after hearing about it. No triggering for them. Those memories must have never made it to my psyche.

Memory is funny, it can protect you; ironically by making you forget.

The One to Catch

2010-08-28T12:48:00.012-06:00

I always loved the ringers. It was a big metal piece of playground equipment that was standard at all Denver elementary schools. It had 10 metal rings hanging from chains. These rings were attached to a lager circular piece of metal that was supported to hold it up in the air by metal rods coming up in the center and branching out. The starting point had a stack of tires so you could reach the first ringer. The point was to go around from ringer to ringer without touching the ground. Unlike most schools where a turn meant you went around them once, then went to the end of the line to wait for your next turn, at Whittier Elementary there was a game that was always played on them. I don’t remember if we had a name for it, But I loved it.

The first kid was the starter (let’s call him Mike). He started out first and when he grabbed the third ringer a second kid (Sherri) started out. If the Sherri caught up with Mike, and was able to touch him before he got back to “home” (the stack of tires) he was “out” and had to drop off. Sherri was the winner and got to be the starter in the next game. However if Sherri was unable to catch Mike, then he got to be the starter again and would get to stay in the game until someone tagged him. I loved this game and would play it as much as I could and had the calluses to prove it. I was good at this game for the following reasons: I weighed almost nothing so it didn’t require a lot of upper body strength to support me. I was fast, fast, fast. I practiced, a lot.

My ringers passion started at Emerson Elementary when I was in the first grade. One of my friends’ older sister and her friends played on them and we wanted to too, so we could be like the big kids. But those big kids took over those ringers every lunch. You had to “prove” you were worthy enough to play on them by going all the way around them once without dropping or the big kids wouldn’t let you on them. I was determined. I started to practice whenever I could. At my class’ recess, after school, on the weekends. The hardest part was turning the soft virgin skin on my palms below the fingers to tough callused skin. The only way to achieve that was to keep going even when you had blisters. Ouch.

One Sunday I went to practice at my school a half a block from my home. On the south side of the school I passed two of my older brother’s friends who were playing basketball. I didn’t bother greeting them since I knew they would never respond, me being “little” and “a brat”. I continued to the playground on the north side of the building and was happy to see nobody was on the ringers. That meant I could practice all I wanted without sharing. As I got closer I realized no kids were at the playground at all. The only other person there was a guy sitting in the sand by the fence leaning against the side of the building, I didn’t think twice about him. The school was just off East Colfax with just a gas station between the playground and the street. Lots of the hippies that lived around there hung out all over the neighborhood. This was nothing new.

Today would be the day, I was resolved to go all the way around without falling off. It was spring and school was almost over and I was going to play with the big kids before school was done. I was almost there too. It was a consistent ¾ trip around before I fell off. After a few minutes the man leaning against the building called to me telling me to come join him. “I can’t, I’m practicing.” was my reply.

After a few more unsuccessful attempts to go around he called to me again, wanting me to come over. “Not now.” was my answer. I was getting so close but just couldn’t get those last two ringers. It was so frustrating, I was almost there! But by then I was also getting tired, and was beginning to feel that maybe today would not be the day after all.
The man called to me again. “Sheesh!”, I thought. My ringers frustration and the frustration at this annoying man blended together. Ignoring the repeated lecture “Don’t talk to strangers”, I stomped my way over to him. “What?” I demanded. “I just wanted to talk.” he replied.“About what?” I asked, still feeling my frustration.

He was not a hippie after all I realized. He was sitting down with his legs straight out in front, he seemed tall. He was almost eye-to-eye with me standing next to him. I also noticed he was thin. He had on light khaki pants with very narrow legs and a madras plaid button down shirt. His hair was short brown, parted on the side but with longer bangs. Not hippie long, not even Beatles long. It was Beach Boys long. He reminded me of the son Jerry in the TV show The Mothers-in-Law that I liked to watch.

He started asking me question like where did I go to school, who was my teacher, did I like school, what was my favorite class. At some point he told me I should sit down and put me on his lap facing him. He just lifted me onto him before I could say anything. I was startled but he was asking me other questions, repeating ones I didn’t answer quickly enough. I was confused and distracted by his quick questions and wasn’t feeling comfortable sitting with him. He put his hand up the back of my shirt and started to rub my back. “How does he know I like it when my mom does that?” I thought.

I was not feeling safe at all, and by then I had already learned to trust that feeling. “I have to go.” I lied, while standing up. I didn’t really have to go home, no one was expecting me or would even miss me for hours. He took my little wrist. “No you don’t.” he replied. It wasn’t a challenge, just a statement. I didn’t understand how he knew so much about me. He knew about my Mom rubbing my back and he knew that I was lying just then.
But my wonderment was overshadowed by the fact he was stopping me from leaving. I didn’t know why he wouldn’t let me go, but now I was scared. I just wanted to go.“I’ll scream.” I threatened, knowing my brother's friends would come.“I’ll scream too.” He replied calmly.

That confused me so much. He can’t scream, people will think I did something wrong. I had started to pull away and was moving my wrist all around trying to make him let go. I did this when my older brother or sisters had a hold of me; it was how I could sometimes get away. He was so composed during my little struggle, but he had to lean forward to keep a hold of me as I pulled away. His grip was no looser however, his fingers wrapped completely around my tiny wrist. I was right by the gate, so close to an escape. I thought if I could just get through the gate I would be alright. We didn’t exchange any words that I remember, but at some point his wrist bone hit the fence post and his hand opened on reflex, I ran.

I ran out the gate, through the courtyard to the other side of the building, I didn’t look back until I was on the south side of the school, by my brother’s friends. Even though they were my brother’s friends and ignored me, I knew they would defend me and not let anyone take me away.

I looked back and the man from the playground wasn’t there. I ran the half block home as fast as my seven-year-old legs could run. When my sneakered foot touched the porch I knew I was safe. The evening paper was there so I knew it was after 4:00. I picked it up and walked inside. My Mom was sitting on the couch smoking a cigarette, an open book in her lap. She was watching ABC’s Wide World of Sports, so I knew it wasn’t yet 5:00. I set the paper down and went to my room. No one noticed my coming.

I never watched Mothers-In Law again. Twelve years would pass before I would tell anyone about that day. I never went to any playground alone after that and for years it made me nervious to even look at an empty playground.

There came a day years later when I realized what the man on the playground would have done to me if I hadn’t gotten away. I then felt so guilty about any child that he might have hurt because I didn’t tell. Some years after that I realized that I was only a child 7 years old, who had made a child’s choice out of fear of punishment. I also realized that he was an adult responsible for his actions and that his shame would be his alone and no longer mine to share.

And although it was one of the most frightening things that had happened to me up to that point in my young life, I continued to practice on the ringers and played on them with the big kids at Emerson Elementary before school was out. And I became one of he fastest kids at Whittier, the one to catch.

“Social Media” from my childhood

2010-08-06T20:14:00.003-06:00

Transistor radio
Eight track player
Rotary dial telephone
AM Radio
Albums
US Mail
Rocky Mountain News (Morning Paper)
Denver Post (Evening Paper)
45’s
Reel to reel
Cassette player
TV with only 5 stations (and no remote):
2 KWGN
4 NBC
6 KRMA
7 CBS
9 ABC

Lessons of an eight-year-old

2010-07-29T11:01:00.004-06:00

When I was 8 we moved. Again. School had already started and that made me “the new girl”. Again. It would start with the staring as I walked in the room. I would want, so badly, to look around the class and spy the open desk so I would have some idea where I would be sitting and who I would be sitting next to. But the feeling of thirty pairs of eyes staring at me always stopped me. The mispronunciation of my name came next. This unique name that I really loved always brought me discomfort at this time. It would cause anyone who had looked away to look up at me again, a little more intently, thinking they misunderstood. And those who hadn’t looked away would frown trying to figure out my name.

A new school was only part of it. There was always a new neighborhood as well with all the social obstacles that came with it. There were always safe people and mean people and hateful people and they all looked alike at first. It was hard to know which was which until someone either told you or you found out for yourself. And some people might seem to be one, but turn out to be another.

So there I was 8 yrs old navigating a new school and a new neighborhood. One thing I noticed right away way the family next door had two children, a boy and a girl, and from the looks of them, they were around my age. This could either be good or bad depending if they were safe or mean. I did what I always did, kept my distance and watched for clues, some kind of action or words that would let me know if they were mean and I would then know to stay clear. However since it was cold out I didn’t have a chance to see them that much. I would usually watch them as they came and went from their car to the house. But I never really got any solid indication. That all changed one snowy night.

I remember it had been snowing since the afternoon. Not a heavy snow, just a steady snow. By dark I was tired of being in the house and thought it might be fun to shovel the walk. Also I loved early dark. The dark that came though it wasn’t really night. The dark that was there when the news was still on. I had never shoveled before and it looked so easy. So I put on my coat and gloves went outside and started pushing the snow. As I got down by the end of our walk, near the sidewalk, the boy from next door came walking by and asked me what I was doing. I wanted to reply with something smart like “What does it look like I am doing?” but not knowing if he was mean or not I opted for “Shoveling.”
“Why are you doing that?” he asked.
Again, I was careful with my reply and answered, “So the snow won’t be on the sidewalk.”
“No,” he clarified, “Why are YOU doing that? It is men’s work.”
Mind you, he didn’t offer to take over, he just wanted me to know.

This was my first contact with a family that would off and on for years take me in as their own. I felt like I belonged to their family more than I felt like I belonged to my own. It was the one friendship that withstood all of the many moves my family made and the test of years passing. Even after years, see them was always like we had never been apart.

The boy was in my grade at school, his sister a grade below us. We all played together had the same friends and I slept and ate at their house as often as I could. If they had family outing or their parents took the kids to go somewhere, I was invited.

In the two years we lived next door to them I got to go so many places that I had never been and would never had had the opportunity to go. We went to the dairy where they got their milk; to the drive-in where their dad parked the station wagon backwards to we could lay in the back and watch the movies. There was an exciting trip to Eliches where my best-girlfriend-ever and I screamed and scream because we were quite sure we were going to die on the Sky Ride. You know, the one that was like a ski lift that went to the Round-Up and back slower than the people walking below? Yea, we were scared and enjoyed every minute of it. There were trips to Farmer’s Markets and to Metropolitan College were their dad went to school (and a vending machine was). There was also one memorable trip though that taught me about hatred, prejudice, compassion and love.

One hot summer day when my girlfriend, her brother and I were playing their dad came up and said, “Come on, we’re going.” Nothing unusual there, we got in the car to go. When we asked where we were going the answer was “You’ll see.” We knew that meant he would not tell us no matter what so we just waited. And waited. And waited. We drove through the city, to the country, past all these farms. We would approach towns, but go right past them. What seemed like an eternity later we were parking at some kind of amusement park with rides!! It was Cheyenne Frontier Days. I had never heard of it but it had games and food and rides and music and horses and cows and everything! It was incredible. We walked around and saw everything. There were all these cowboys walking around. I had never seen a real cowboy before that. It was so exciting. The rides, the games and as night fell, all the lights. It was beautiful.

There was this one game that was similar to the games you see in some restaurants now where you have a claw thing and try to get candy or a stuffed toy. This was like that but shorter and longer with games all lined together with the attendant standing behind them. Well my girlfriend took her money and put it in one of these machines but nothing happened. The attendant didn’t notice. My friend tried to shake the coin drop and pound it, but carefully since the attendant was there. Nothing helped, the game was not working. She walked over to her dad and told him what happened. He came over and tried it but it still wouldn’t work.
“Excuse me,” he called to the attendant, “this machine took my daughters money.”
The attendant looked at him and shrugged.
“I don’t think you understood me. This machine doesn’t work. She didn’t get to play, it just took her money.”
The attendant said, “Too bad.”
“Look this game took my daughters money, you either let her play another game or give her her money back.”
I don’t remember exactly what the attendant said next but I know it had the word nigger in it.

Before he had finished saying it my friend’s dad had his hands on the counter and was on his way over. The attendant was ready and pulled out something silver and quick as lightening hit my friend’s dad in the forehead. The blow knocked him back and blood started running freely from a cut above his eye. My friend started to cry and everything around us seemed to stop for an instant. My friend’s dad then had us go with him to find a cop. I remember rushing after him and trying to calm down my crying friend, lying to her that everything would be alright, but I wasn’t really sure. I was scared too but I was more concerned for my friend. I wished that I was older, more grown up so she would trust my words and I could make her not worry. Wishing I was big enough to hold her so I could wrap safety around her with my arms.

I don’t really remember much after that other than the cop we found wasn’t really nice to my friends injured dad. And I remember the long quite ride home, all the happiness in the day erased by a giant wrench swung by a redneck racist no better than his upbringing. It has been 40 years since that day, I have never gone to Frontier Days again, but every year when the advertisement comes on I think of that night.

Movie Theaters I went to

2010-04-10T11:13:00.005-06:00

Paramount Theater
Centre Theater
The Crest
Aladdin Theater
Century 21 Theater
The Denver Theater later The Denver Twin
Evans Drive-in
Cooper Theater
Cherry Creek Theater
Continental Theater
Fox Theater
Ogden Theater
Cinderella Twin Drive-in
Denver Center Theater

Safeway

2010-04-07T17:20:00.013-06:00

There is a knock at the door, which is strange. But it is ok, I can answer it.

Mom and my sister CAS have just left to go to Safeway. That left me there in charge. I am so excited. Ten is plenty old enough to be left alone. I loved being alone, it so seldom happens in the small houses we lived in with so many people. And now someone was at the door and I get to answer it all by myself.

I don’t recognize the man at the door. He doesn’t say hello or ask for anyone in my family, instead he quickly scans the room behind me and asks if my parents are home.
“No..” I begin, “That’s Ok, you can help me.” he interrupts as he pushes his way in, and closes the door behind himself.

We live in the projects. Church projects, but projects none the less. They are two-story townhome like units. Four to a row. Living/dining room and the kitchen on the first floor, 3 bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. Our place is second from the end and closest to the parking lot off the alley. It faces north and is tucked back between the units on either side.

The stranger strides into the house without hesitation. He goes directly through the living room area to the linoleum dinning room table and spreads out a map. He takes out a highlighter and makes two x’s, one on the left and one on the right of the map. He pulls a chair out and instructs me to kneel on the chair and place my hands on each of the x’s. I am in an awkward pose, leaning forward over the table, arms out wide like I am about to do a push up. “Wait,” he says, “let me move the chair.” He rotates the chair so the back of it is on my left and has me put my hands on the x’s again.

The floor plan is an open rectangle. The living room at the front end has the front door and a window. The dining room had a patio slider. The patio faced out to a common area with a building that houses the laundry room. There is a sidewalk that is directly behind our patio door that people used to get to the parking lot or the laundry. Mom keeps the curtains closed most of the time so people wouldn’t be nosy and look into our place.

I am facing those closed curtains now. Everything has happened so fast since this man came in, I am so confused. I don’t know what to make of any of it. He is still talking, fast now. He is telling me I am doing a good job and that I am doing it right but he is only talking about my hand on the x’s. Why are my hands on the x’s? What am I suppose to be looking at? He is standing behind me now and places his hands next to mine on either side. Then he leans against me from behind. I feel something press against my buttocks. I don’t know what it is, I think it is the highlighter he used but it is still on the table in front of me.

Safeway is a five block walk away. There is a small store that is only two blocks away but it really doesn’t carry much and it costs way more so mom tries not to buy stuff there. Us kids go there a lot however for candy or soda. We can also turn in old soda bottles for cash. My sister TJS’s favorite thing there is the burritos. They cook them on a stove they have there and sell them wrapped in foil. My sister is right, they are yummy.
It is a quick walk to the little store but Safeway is a long five block walk, ten blocks round trip not counting shopping time. Mom and CAS will be gone for a while.

His voice changes now, deeper and slower, telling me I am doing a good job and he is moving back and forth behind me pressing harder now. I have no idea what is going on but something is wrong. It all feels wrong. My mouth has gone dry, I am scared and I don’t know what to do. Without thinking I duck under his right arm and am off the chair. “You have to go,” I say. “My mom and sister just went to the corner store and will be back soon and I will get in trouble for letting anyone in.” I lie the thing I hear a thousand times in the projects. No one is allowed in the house if a parent isn’t there. We don’t have that rule at home but it is a convincing lie. And thankfully it works. He quickly gathers up his map and highlighter off the table, is mumbling something about coming back another time when my mom is home and is out the door as fast as he came in it. I lock the door behind him and then I start to shake. I still don’t know what has happened but I know I feel sick to my stomach and I am suddenly cold. I want to go outside and stand in the sun but am scared. I sit down on the couch and stare blindly at the TV.

Mom and CAS come home about a half hour later with the groceries. I help put them away. I don’t tell them or anyone else what has happened. I didn’t want to get in trouble. When I am asked if I am ok, I say I have a headache. No one knows the truth.

A few years later this day makes sense. I understand what had happened. And a few years after that, I understand what could have happened and I realized how incredibly lucky I was.

I see this man once more in my life. I am still ten and some months have passed since I first saw him. I am on the swing set in the courtyard in front of our row of townhouses swinging away. I love the sensation of swinging. The back and forth rhythm and the weightless sensation at the top before falling back again. The feeling of the wind blowing in my hair. I love using the weight if my body and stretch of my legs to keep the constant pace. I always feel so peaceful swinging. There is no one else on the swing set, lucky me; I have it all to myself. Then I get the feeling that someone is looking at me.
I look to my left and there in our next door neighbor’s window, he is. There is a faint smile on his face as he stares straight at me. I am so suddenly and completely scared I almost pee myself. I quickly look away. A thousand thoughts flitter through my mind at once. RUN being the first. I am confused again. He must be in the neighbor’s house without their knowing, they are moving today and he must have snuck in. Then the realization comes. They know him. RUN RUN RUN my brain keeps saying. I slowly stop the swing. I don’t want him to know that I am aware who he is or that I am scared. I want to run but I am afraid that if I do he will chase me. You know, like dogs will do, if you run, they chase you. I walk mechanically to my front door using all my strength to not look at the window again. I am scared he will still be there and I am scared he won’t. I am back on the couch, staring at the TV. When they ask, I'll say I have a headache.

Candy

2010-04-06T23:17:00.002-06:00

Candy Cigarette
Wax Lips
Sixlets
Charm Pops
Sugar Daddy
Lemonheads
Candy Necklace
Blow Pops
Tootsi pops
Razzles
Smarties
Bazooka Bubble Gum
Gold Mine Gum
Jolly Rancher Sticks
Wax Cola Bottles
Sugar Babies

The Emergency Room

2010-04-05T21:35:00.006-06:00

I am 16 years old standing in the Emergency Room at an Aurora Hospital on the phone with my mom. The phone is in my left hand, I am purposely keeping my right hand out of my line of vision. As long as I don't look at it I am ok.

“Mom, I was in a car accident. I am at an Aurora Hospital.” My voice is calm and even, no crying. I am in shock. The reply I am expecting to hear is she will be right over. That she is coming to take care of me and everything will be alright. Instead she said, “Have them transfer you over to University Hospital. I am here already with your brother.”

I hang up and make the necessary arrangements to have an ambulance transfer me to Colorado University Hospital. Shock or no shock; accident or no accident, it is up to me. Again. I am “the baby” in name only. The youngest of five, but mom is done raising kids. I have become ‘the adult” responsible for anything that requires responsibility. I have been for years now.

My Mom. Born illegitimate in New York City in 1928 grew up to be the smartest person I ever knew. And funny. She stood strong and mighty behind what she believed in. I just wish that she would have picked raising her children as something she believed in.

So here I am, number five, standing in an Emergency Room, and mom is done doing a job she never really wanted, nor was ever really good at. They put me in an ambulance and send me on my way. Thirty minutes later I am in a private area of University Emergency waiting for my mom to come down from my brother’s room. Another Emergency Room without my mother. My brother had an abscess in his lung and his lung kept filling with fluid despite the draining tube he had. When mom comes in I can see her concern. She is unclear about the extent of my injuries. I am happy she is here but am feeling worried that she will be leaving me alone to go check on my brother.

Mom got married at 19 years old in 1948. She had her first child in December 1949; second in June 1951; third December 1952; fourth January 1956 and me in December 1960. My mom, who I believe in my heart never wanted children, had five. With a man she didn’t love when she married him.

I am still calm and without tears. But I still keep my right hand out of sight. What I don’t see, can’t be real. I am explaining the ambulance transfer to my mother while the nurse gets me situated. While I am talking to my mom a Doctor comes in and asks if I am ok. He is in a hospital gown and has an IV and an IV pole so he can get around. He looks very worried about me. This all confuses me. I am scared now that my Doctor is sick. It is my brother but I don’t realize it.

I once asked my Mom why she married a man that she had only known 8 weeks and only had seen on the weekends. Her matter of fact answer was, “I was 19 and didn’t want to be an old maid.” What I should have asked her was why she had five children.

As I try to understand why my brother is my doctor my sister CAS comes in. She looks so very worried. I look up at her, hold out my right hand and say “I lost my finger.”, and I look at it for the first time. Then I start crying. Hard. I no longer need to worry, CAS is there I know that she won’t leave me and that she will take care of me and handle anything that needs to be handled. I no longer need to be brave or strong, CAS will take care of me, she always has. CAS, my mother by unofficial proxy. I can now be “the baby” who has a major concussion, lost the tip of her finger and was lucky to be alive after being in a car that rolled over on the highway 60 miles outside of Denver.

In 1964 my dad went out to get a pack of cigarettes and never came back. Literally. Overnight mom was responsible for supporting herself and five children. A task that was barely being accomplished with dad’s help. She later told me that she had a breakdown in the weeks after he left. She went to a psychiatrist who wanted to hospitalize her. That meant that we five would become wards of the court. She would not have us during that time. Maybe never again. Mom told me the only reason she wouldn’t agree was she didn’t want to be like dad. She didn’t want to quit like he did. I waited but she was done. No talk of loving us or not wanting to be apart from us. Mom’s explanation was complete.

I am in the hospital late into the night getting patched up but get to go home when the doctor is done. Over time my finger heals, only a bit of it gone, I never miss it. My brain takes a little longer, but it heals too and most of my memories come back. And eventually my fear of cars goes away.

Years later my heart heals too. I come to understand my mom. I always knew that she loved us and I realize that her neglect was never anything personal. While she may not have always been there for us emotionally, she did her best. And she always kept us fed, clothed and housed. She taught us the joy of reading and humor. We learned to stand up for what we believe in. We learned about the equality of people and to respect the opinions of others. We learned manners and how to behave in public. And somehow, we also learned to love.

Mrs. Brown you've got a lovely daughter

2009-10-28T03:32:00.003-06:00

It’s funny how you can hear something and you tap into a feeling from an earlier time. Herman's Hermits song Mrs. Brown you’ve got a lovely daughter sung by Peter Noone does that for me. When I hear it I relax, feel peaceful and safe, then I get a little melancholy.

The worst was right before the end. Dad was out of control. He was angry, crazy and violent. And drunk. A lot. There is so much that I don’t remember from that time. But one thing I do. Parts of it at least.

It is late and I was in bed but now I am standing in the dark hallway looking into the living room. I can see the television, a side table and part of the couch. I also see my Dad choking my Mom. Both of his hands around her throat, her arm flies out and hits the lamp and it crashes to the floor. The next thing I remember is lying in my sister TJS’s bed, my face buried in her back. Years later I learn that there is more to the story. Things I had forgotten.

I was not alone in the hall that night. My sister CAS was there too, behind me. She too saw Dad and Mom, and Mom’s hand hit the lamp. Then she did something. She screamed. That made Dad stop. She then turned and ran back to bed. The same bedroom she shared with TJS. So while I was climbing in bed with TJS, CAS was climbing into her bed. I also don’t remember the police coming or Dad going to jail. The ironic thing is CAS doesn’t remember me being in the hall or my getting into bed with TJS. Chaos can do that, cloud your memory.

I don’t remember if it was before or after, but one night around the time when all the craziness was happening CAS was in the kitchen making dinner. Mom wasn’t home from work and no one else was home. I was in the living room, sitting in a stuffed chair that rocked. The Christmas tree was up and the tree lights were the only lights in the room. The pine scent and the soft glow of red, blue, green and amber lights filled the room. The sparkle of the colors on the tinsel was so beautiful. I was gently rocking in the chair and CAS had her Herman Hermits record playing.

Mrs. Brown you've got a lovely daughter
Girls as sharp as her are somethin' rare
But it's sad, she doesn't love me now
She's made it clear enough it ain't no good to pine

I was relaxed, no one unpredictable was there.

She wants to return those things I bought her
Tell her she can keep them just the same
Things have changed, she doesn't love me now
She's made it clear enough it ain't no good to pine

I was safe no one was angry.

Walkin' about, even in a crowd, well
You'll pick her out, makes a bloke feel so proud

I was at peace, nothing bad was about to happen.

If she finds that I've been round to see you (round to see you)
Tell her that I'm well and feelin' fine (feelin' fine)
Don't let on, don't say she's broke my heart
I'd go down on my knees but it's no good to pine

The melancholy is not a feeling from then, but now.
From realizing how crazy my world was that I remember being 5 and feeling safe.

Mrs. Brown you've got a lovely daughter (lovely daughter)
Mrs. Brown you've got a lovely daughter (lovely daughter)
Mrs. Brown you've got a lovely daughter (lovely daughter)
Mrs. Brown you've got a lovely daughter (lovely daughter)

Where I lived from 3 years to 18 years old

2009-10-28T03:27:00.002-06:00

14th & York St.
12th & Elizabeth St.
11th & Lincoln St.
14th Ave @ Emerson St.
25th & Lafayette St.
S. Grant St. & Arizona Ave.
37th & Humboldt St.
10th & Pontiac St.
E. Iowa Ave. @ Ash St.
Albrook Dr. & Peoria St.
12th Ave. @ Tamarac St.
S. Dayton St. & Mississippi Ave.
E. Ellsworth Ave. & S. Ogden St.
14th & Humboldt St.

Evictions

2009-10-23T23:50:00.002-06:00

Eviction. A lot of people can’t imagine going through it, but really after a couple of times there is a rhythm. Anyway Mom was really good a moving us before the Sheriff’s actually came and to put our stuff on the street. The only time that happened, my Mom had a rental truck and got the Sheriff’s to help load our stuff onto the truck. There we all were my sisters, brother, Mom, some neighbors and some Denver Sheriffs all loading the truck.

Through my school years we moved on average once a year. Twice we stayed some place two years; twice I went to three schools in one grade. Lots of times we moved because we were about to get evicted. It was hard for Mom to make enough money to keep a place.

We usually lived in low income minority neighborhoods. We, as the white family became the minorities there though. We didn’t live in these neighborhoods because of Moms involvement with the civil rights movement, but ironically, it was her involvement with that and all of her other political passions that caused us getting evicted from some.
You would think living in a black neighborhood you would have no worries about being evicted for being involved with the Black Panthers. Not true. Anyway, we lived where mom could afford. And usually we got evicted when she couldn’t pay rent. When I was really young I didn’t understand why we were moving, we would just suddenly move. All I knew was I was about to have a new home. A new neighborhood. A new school. And I would be the new girl. I got very good at making friends quickly. The only things that stayed the same were the crappy neighborhoods and the crappy schools.

My Dad left Mom with five kids, 15 to 4 years old. It was 1965 and a woman couldn’t make enough to support a family herself. So even though Mom was a college graduate, spoke fluent Spanish and was one of the smartest, most well read people you could want to meet, she couldn’t get paid enough in her job to pay all the bills. And she sucked at managing her money. And although I don’t believe she really wanted kids she did her best to support us.

When I was in 4th grade I was sitting in music class when through the door window I saw my oldest sister. She motioned me to come to her. I, of course, didn’t. Not without permission from my teacher. When I got to the hall my sister said, “Come on we are moving. Mom told me to come get you.” I honestly don’t remember if we went and got my stuff from class or not.

When we got home the moving truck was there. The sheriffs too. Mom told me to go inside and help pack. As we packed things up they went directly into the truck. This time I was old enough to know something was not right with all this. There were people watching, I felt embarrassed. But we plugged away at loading everything in the truck.
There are always things left behind during an eviction. The things deemed unnecessary at the time. I have very few mementos from my childhood because of this. We lived in church subsidized projects for a couple of years after this.

Time passed, my siblings got older, got jobs and help pitch in; and equal pay for equal work became more common for women in the workplace. We never moved as suddenly again. We didn’t officially get evicted after that. However I do believe that there were times when mom moved us just before the notice would have been taped to the door. But that’s ok, it’s not an official eviction without the sheriffs visit to your house.

Mi Familia

2009-10-23T23:34:00.002-06:00

Dad - born Indiana
Mom - born New York

MAS - 1st sister, born in Pensacola, Florida (11 years older than me)
CAS - 2nd sister born in New York, New York (10 years older than me)
RJS - Only brother born in Peoria, Illinois (8 years older than me)
TJS - 3rd sister born in Clinton, Indiana (5 years older than me)
Me - “The baby” born in San Diego, California

The Lessons

2009-10-22T13:15:00.007-06:00

Mrs. Silverberg is what we called her at first. Miss Silberberg was correct. The compromise became Mrs. Silberberg.
Miss Ellen Silberberg, my 5th grade teacher.
She saved my life.

The first day of school when I walked into one of the two, second story, 5th grade classrooms I was worried about who else was in the class. I was hoping that there was someone who I could become friends with. I only spent the last few months before summer break of 4th grade at Wyatt, not enough time to infiltrate and be included in the friendships that already existed. I had a couple of friends from the block I lived on, but they were not the same age so wouldn’t be in this class.

My other concern was who the teacher was. She was new so no one knew anything about her. But I was relieved that I didn’t have the other 5th grade teacher. She was mean. Real mean. Hit her students with a yardstick kind of mean.

That kind of “physical discipline” was common at the schools I went to. You could be “physically disciplined” for any and all infractions. Missing a spelling word, talking without permission, not following instructions, talking back, perceived talking back. You name it. I wasn’t worried about getting hit though. My mom always sent a letter to the schools I went to and told them I was not to be physically disciplined by any school employee. For any reason. Ever. I think it had something to with her childhood catholic school beatings from the nuns.

Discipline aside, I was worried that this new teacher would be mean. And strict. And I would hate every day of school. We all sized her up. Young (23 we found out later), short (two students in the class were taller) and white. Hmmmm… not much of that around this black and hispanic school.

Once we were all in class and roll was taken, she had us sit on the carpet she had brought with her and explained how things would be in her classroom. This is what we were waiting for. There was some nervousness since earlier a new student came in the room and our new teacher called out, “Hi David.” David went pale. It seems David was in her class at his last school. He wasn’t happy to see her, not good.

“First thing,” she said after we settled down, “I will never hit any of you. I may get mad and drop you out that window onto your head, but I will never hit you.” Hmmm….

It turned out to be true. She never hit any of us. And she never threw anyone out the window either. She did do so much for us. What she did was teach us about life. Not just “life”, but our lives. Our impoverished, hard little lives. She knew that not all of us would make it through what we were living; some of us would be sucked down never to recover. But she was determined to give us as many tools as she could to help us make it.

She pointed out that the choices we make now determine our future. That we can choose to be like our siblings and neighbors who dropped out of school and do drugs, or not. We could drop out and then only get work at low income jobs or end up living in the projects, or not.

She showed us that we were smart, capable students and that our past grades did not determine our intelligence or our success. She took kids who were behind by as much as 3 grades and by the end of the year they were at grade level. She showed us that we had gifts untapped. That we all deserved respect and though we might not be treated with value at home, we were valuable. And that failure was not a bad thing, not trying was.

She saved my life by showing me a different future than the one that surrounded me. And made me realize that I can decide my path. Before her I missed a lot of school. I just didn’t go and my grades reflected that. When I received a report card with all A’s & B’s, I went and thanked her. She rocked my world again when she told me not to thank her. “You earned the grades, not me.” She told me. “You can do the work, if you’re here.” Ahhhhh…I get it. Again.

She did all this and so much more my 5th grade year. In a thousand little ways and hundreds of big she changed me. I am happy to say that because of her I never did hard drugs, I never got arrested, I went to college, I never had to live in the projects again and I never stood on someone’s back so I could feel better about myself.

I wish I could clone her into a million Miss Silberbergs so that every student could have the opportunity to learn academia, life and self from her.

The Denver Public Schools I went to:

2009-10-21T15:13:00.002-06:00

Kindergarten
Stevens
Evans

1st Grade
Evans
Emerson

2nd Grade
Emerson
Whittier

3rd Grade
Whittier

4th Grade
Whittier
McKinely
Wyatt

5th Grade
Wyatt

6th Grade
Wyatt
Montclair
Ellis

7th Grade
No school

8th Grade
Smiley

9th Grade
Smiley
Place
Morey

10th Grade
East

11th Grade
East

12th Grade
East

The Phone Call

2009-10-18T22:57:00.001-06:00

I am sitting in my 6th grade classroom at Wyatt with all of the other students having a normal uneventful day when the school secretary comes to the door and looks straight me and says, “Maura, you have a phone call.” My first thought is, “She knows my name?”

“Ok.” I answer getting up and begin to head to the door. The whole class quiet as I make my journey. I see she is holding the phone. Funny, I didn’t realize it before. My mind is a blank as to who could be calling me at school. I have never got a call at school and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. It can’t be anyone at home. We don’t have a phone since we can’t afford it. While I ponder all of this the secretary plugs the phone into the classroom door jam. This is not peculiar to me. “Thank you.” I say taking the receiver she is holding out to me. I turn and the classroom is empty. All the students are gone.

Dreams are funny that way. The way the most unusual things seem normal.

“Hello?” I answer.
“Maura, It’s your father.”
“I know.” I answer, recognizing his voice at once. This too is peculiar since I hadn’t heard his voice in 6 years and wouldn’t recognize it, or him for that matter, if this weren’t a dream.
“Do you love me?” he asks?
“Of course I love you, you’re my father.” I answer.
“That’s good, because nobody else does.” he replies.

That is all. Dream over. Just my dad calling asking if I love him. Weird, but aren’t all dreams? I tell no one about my dream, but it stays with me, talking to him seemed so real I can’t really shake it. But I don’t share this. I am worried that if I tell my family they will make fun of me or be mad at me for loving the man they all hate so venomously. They won’t understand that I can love this dad who left when I was 5, never to contact us again. Ever. Who almost choked my mom to death in front of us in one of his angry drunken episodes. Who regularly, and thoroughly, beat my siblings and made their lives a living hell.

Not me though, He didn’t beat me. I was “the baby” and too young for such abuse. Funny how even monsters can have boundaries. I was his little buddy. I was the one he took to the bars with him when Mom was at work and my siblings at school. He would lift me high up on the bar stool and the bartender would give me a Shirley Temple, Roy Rogers or a coke with cherries. I never got to pick for myself, but that was ok, I enjoyed them all. He also defended me when no one else did. I woke up scared and crying one night because I saw a huge eye on the wall by my bed. No one believed me, they kept saying it was a dream. I got more and more upset as they argued with me. “Enough” dad said. “If she says she saw it, then she saw it!” “Here”, he said giving me a long thin curtain rod. “If it comes back, you poke and it will go away.” My first lesson in self-defense.

I didn’t miss him after he left. We didn’t have to walk on eggshells anymore, and there weren’t any more beatings. But I didn’t hate him either. He was just gone and for the most part our daily lives were more peaceful.

About a week after my dad dream, my Mom came home late after work. She had been someplace else first, I wasn’t sure where, but she had a drink or two. For courage it turned out. She was visibly upset. She gathered us together and told us “Your Father is dead. He killed himself in California about a week ago.” Everyone is quiet with their own thoughts. My thoughts are of course about my dream. The last part. The “That’s good, because nobody else does.” part. He committed suicide and that in my dream when I said yes I loved him; he said “That’s good, because nobody else does.” What that just a coincidence?

I still don’t know the answer but I am happy to know that my dad died knowing that there was one person in the world who loved him when he died. I didn’t mourn his death. I hadn’t seen him since I was 5, so I didn’t miss him in death. Gone is gone. Later I would mourn that I never got to know him, or get to have a father. Later still, I even realized that if he hadn’t left us when he did, I too would have ended up hating him and he would have died unloved. Funny isn’t it? That his selfish act of leaving his wife and five children ended up allowing a love for him in his death that he wouldn’t have had otherwise.

No I never hated him. And all these years later, I no longer love him either. It has been so long since I last saw him and being so young, I barely knew him then. But he still is and always will be my father, and I am sure that some of the good in me, and some of the bad, is from him. And even though I can no longer remember the voice on the phone, I have not forgotten being in my 6th grade classroom and getting his call.

Songs from the early years

2009-10-18T22:55:00.000-06:00

Would you like to ride in my beautiful balloon
Would you like to ride in my beautiful balloon
We could float among the stars together, you and I
For we can fly we can fly
Up, up and away
My beautiful, my beautiful balloon

Trailers for sale or rent
Rooms to let...fifty cents.
No phone, no pool, no pets
I ain't got no cigarettes
Ah, but..two hours of pushin' broom
Buys an eight by twelve four-bit room
I'm a man of means by no means
King of the road.

1-2-3-4!
We don’t want your stinking war!

Whoa-oa-oa! I feel good, I knew that I would, now
I feel good, I knew that I would, now
So good, so good, I got you
Whoa! I feel nice, like sugar and spice
I feel nice, like sugar and spice
So nice, so nice, I got you

All the leaves are brown
And the sky is grey
I've been for a walk
On a winter's day
I'd be safe and warm
If I was in L.A.
California dreaming
On such a winter's day

We shall overcome, we shall overcome,
We shall overcome someday;
Oh, deep in my heart, I do believe,
We shall overcome someday.

Moon river, wider than a mile
I'm crossing you in style some day
Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker
Wherever you're goin', I'm goin' your way.

I'll do anything
For you dear anything
For you mean everything to me.
I know that
I'll go anywhere
For your smile, anywhere --
For your smile, ev'rywhere --
I'd see.

Baby, baby
I'm aware of where you go
Each time you leave my door
I watch you walk down the street
Knowing your other love you'll meet
But this time before you run to her
Leaving me alone and hurt
(Think it over) After I've been good to you ?
(Think it over) After I've been sweet to you ?

Mmm I bet you're wonderin' how I knew
Bout' your plans to make me blue
With some other girl ya knew before
Between the two of us girls ypu know i loved you more
It took me by surprise I must say
When i found out yesterday
Don't you know I heard it through the grapevine
Not much longer would you be mine
Oh, I heard it through the grapevine
Oh, I'm just about to lose my mind

Mrs. Brown you've got a lovely daughter
Girls as sharp as her are somethin' rare
But it's sad, she doesn't love me now
She's made it clear enough it ain't no good to pine

When the moon is in the Seventh House
And Jupiter aligns with Mars
Then peace will guide the planets
And love will steer the stars
This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius
The Age of Aquarius
Aquarius! Aquarius!

I want to thank you falettinme
Be mice elf agin
Thank you falettinme
Be mice elf agin

Is this going to be on T.V.?

2009-10-18T20:14:00.005-06:00

I remember thinking “Is this going to be on TV?”
I really didn’t understand why the news station would come to our house just because my brother locked us out. And the cops were there too. Why?

I mean, the cops usually came when he was yelling and throwing stuff, like the phone after we called them, but man, we had been locked out for hours anyway. Since before Mom got home from work. We didn’t call her when he locked us out though. Our neighbor Mrs. Anderson said we could use her phone to call Mom, but we knew we would get it trouble if we did. Mom had a strict rule about calling her at work. We could only call if “we were bleeding from both ears” and well, no one was.

After he locked us out I just went to my friend’s house and played there. When her Mom got home, I had to go back home. On the way I remembered that my brother had locked us out. I was sure that was all over by now though. Man, was I surprised to find we were still locked out. Mom was home and trying to yell up to him to let us in, but he wouldn’t.

The neighbors were all watching now. I don’t know who called the police but they came to watch too. They really didn’t do anything. Not until my brother remembered that there was a rifle in the house and yelled he was going to get it. Then he did. Stupid.

He was always that way. He didn’t know when to stop. Always crossed the line, went too far and got in trouble. By the time he was 18 he got picked up by the cops and sent to Juvenile Hall more than anyone else in Denver. Ever. But Mom was smart. When he got picked up, she left him there overnight. He learned that Mom wouldn’t save him if he got in trouble and after he turned 18 and could go to jail, he never got arrested again.

So there he was pointing the rifle barrel out the bathroom window and the cops rushing to get us all out of the way. Which was stupid too. The bathroom window faced the windowless wall of the house next door and that wall was so close you had to be almost sideways to go between those houses.
I know, I did it once. Only once. On a dare.

It was smelly like cat pee or something. And it had spider webs that you could all of a sudden feel. You know the kind you can’t see and can’t get off you and freak you out. There was nothing on the ground but dirt, weeds and some trash that blew in, and I knew a mouse was going to be under one of those pieces of trash. But I was determined that I would not scream. After all the whole reason I went through there was to prove I wasn’t afraid. And then I was out, no mice, no screams. Just brave me.

So come on, if an 8 year old could barely fit through there how was my brother going to get the rifle out to shoot us on the street? Anyway he was yelling that he was going to shoot himself if they broke down the door. He wasn’t threatening us. He was just showing them he had the gun. Duh.

But the TV news? Really? Why did they care? Then the cops fired tear gas into our house. Into the bedroom I shared with my Mom to be specific. It was the closest room to the bathroom. The smell stung my nose and did its job and teared my eyes. It was one of those sharp smells I loved and hated. Like skunk.

It reminded me of being at protests with my Mom where they used tear gas to break it up. My Mom tried to make sure I wasn’t at any protest that might get out of hand, but sometimes it happened. Usually my sister got me out at the first sign of trouble when my Mom would say “Get the baby out of here.” We would pass our signs over to someone else, skim through the crowd to the side of the group and walk right past the cops. They never stopped us, my teenage sister and me looking too young to be involved with such things. Later we would laugh about how we walked right past them without getting caught.

So now I know why the TV cameras are here. To record my brother being led out of the house through a haze of tear gas, handcuffed and coughing. Shirtless in the summer heat, with a big afro that every brotha’ in the neighborhood was jealous of. I remember my friends asking how come my brother was white but had such a big afro. That was how everyone knew it was my brother on the news. The white skin and the afro. I didn’t know that years later people would say “Oh, were you that white family where that guy got arrested on the news?” “Yup. That was us.” I would answer. “Yea, I saw that on TV.” Yea.

My Mom & I never did sleep in that bedroom again. Could never get the smell out. We had to stuff rolled up towels under the door to keep the smell out of the rest of the house from then on. The summer was the worst, phew, the heat made that smell rise. The hide-away sofa in the living room became our bed. It was Ok though. We ended up moving from that house later that next fall. After getting evicted.