For the Sake of One: An Autobiographical Look at the Domino Effect of Childhood Abuse

By Gloria E Kingsley

Born in 1937 in an era when sexual abuse was never spoken of again, Gloria couldn't understand why her sexuality made her stand out to predators like red berries against snow. It was not until mid-life, when she experienced a full-scale flashback to repeated childhood abuse, that she began to understand the power and depth of her woundedness

• Language: English
• Publisher: Public Enunciatory
• Release date: Apr 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9780578666037

Gloria E Kingsley

Gloria E. Kingsley pledged to write her story after, as unworthy as she believed herself to be, she prayed for a miracle and God answered her prayer. Using a nom de plume, she kept her promise and has written her psychological autobiography in part to help others who have also suffered from the domino effect of childhood sexual abuse and in part to heal herself. Now at age eighty-three, she is sharing it with all of us.

Book preview

For the Sake of One: An Autobiographical Look at the Domino Effect of Childhood Abuse, by Gloria E Kingsley

From the author: Thanks to my editor, Kay Derochie. Without her, my story would never have been told. She stuck by me with encouragement during difficult times. Thanks to helpful clergy, counselors, and attorneys whose names were changed. Thanks to my family and friends who continue to support me. Their journeys of support have been challenging, painful, and long. Thanks to Vinnie and Jenny at Indigo: Editing, Design, and More.

For the Sake of One

Published by Public Enunciatory

© 2020 by Gloria E. Kingsley

All rights reserved. Published by Public Enunciatory. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Edited by Kay Derochie

Cover design, interior book design, and ebook converion provided by Indigo: Editing, Design, and More:

Cover designer: Jenny Kimura

Interior book designer and ebook converter: Vinnie Kinsella

www.indigoediting.com

ISBN: 978-0-578-66602-0

eISBN: 978-0-578-66603-7

LCCN: 2020905337

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Preface

Chapter 1. In the Beginning

Chapter 2. The Friendly Witch and Scared Little Sinner

Chapter 3. Manufacturing Normalcy

Chapter 4. Heartthrob

Chapter 5. Lost

Chapter 6. Teenage Tragedy

Chapter 7. Picking Up the Pieces

Chapter 8. Seduced by Courtly Manners

Chapter 9. The Growth of Magical Thinking

Chapter 10. Royal Reception in Paradise

Chapter 11. Traumatized Bride

Chapter 12. Fading Fantasies

Chapter 13. Cracks in the Foundation

Chapter 14. No Safe Sanctuary

Chapter 15. An Ill Wind Blowin’

Chapter 16. Knee Deep in Fertilizer

Chapter 17. Crazy House

Chapter 18. Angel of Death

Chapter 19. The Hardest Battle

Chapter 20. Shenanigan Politics

Chapter 21. Surviving Storms of Nature and Man

Chapter 22. Final Straw

Chapter 23. Consequences for All

Chapter 24. Recollections

Chapter 25. Starting Over—and Over

Chapter 26. Decisions and Indecisions

Chapter 27. Striving

Chapter 28. Opportunity Knocks; Trauma Crashes In

Chapter 29. White House Calling

Chapter 30. Knight in Shining Armor

Chapter 31. Imperfect Justice

Chapter 32. More Ups and Downs

Chapter 33. Impending Danger

Chapter 34. Playing with Fire

Chapter 35. Rescue and Successes

Chapter 36. Another Kind of Kidnap

Chapter 37. Here Come de Judge

Chapter 38. Thumbing His Nose

Chapter 39. New Digs and Old Problems

Chapter 40. Deliverance

Chapter 41. Still a Novice

Chapter 42. A Man’s True Colors

Chapter 43. Erasure

Chapter 44. Mother Nature Blows Her Top

Chapter 45. Little Napoleon

Chapter 46. No Time to Mourn

Chapter 47. Family

Chapter 48. Departure

Chapter 49. Hope for a Better Future

Chapter 50. New Home, New Job, New Guy

Chapter 51. Getting Closer

Chapter 52. Stumbling Start-Ups

Chapter 53. Revelations, Allegations and Nightmares

Chapter 54. Reclamation of Self and Increasing Suspicion

Chapter 55. Havoc

Chapter 56. The Task at Hand

Chapter 57. You’ve Got to be Kidding

Chapter 58. The Process

Chapter 59. Pushing Onward

Chapter 60. Recovery

Chapter 61. The Good Priest

Chapter 62. Forgiveness and Accountability

Chapter 63. More Charges, More Denials

Chapter 64. Approximate Justice

Chapter 65. Rebuilding

Chapter 66. The Possibility of It All

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Preface

"The victimization of children is nowhere forbidden;

what is forbidden is to write about it." 1

Childhood sexual assaults challenged my life. Before I learned to speak in sentences, a pedophile chose me as his victim. Later, while I was still of preschool age, a shopkeeper followed suit. Then several older children of a perverted family who had become our neighbors repeatedly cornered me in the basement of my home.

In 1937, the year I was born, and for many years after, when a child was molested, it was kept a secret. Agencies of intervention to assist recovery from abuse were non-existent or unknown. Today, all forms of media report stories of abuse and provide a venue for alerting and educating the public, confirming that a victim is just that—a victim—making it possible to ward off or at least diminish life-damaging self-blame. Back then, the subject did not make the newspapers or magazines; there was no television, let alone TV talk shows or Twitter sites on which victims told their stories. As a result, my mother had few tools to aid her in raising a daughter who had been sexually traumatized at such a young age. As for my father, he was trained to keep secrets, practicing the rule of secrecy about his abusive childhood and about my early abuse. Withstanding the refining fires burning from my early childhood became my solitary and unconscious task.

Memories too painful to recall resulted in my living years as an emotional paralytic when men treated me inappropriately. A part of me remained broken from those unknown-to-me childhood traumas, which in turn resulted in further sexual exploitation as an adult. I repeatedly remained unable to understand why I seemed to attract abusers, why I could not prevent, retaliate, or quickly get myself out of sexually abusive situations.

It took me decades to remember and confirm with relatives the childhood abuse I suffered and to come to understand how many of my emotions, unwise choices, internal conflicts, and excessive vulnerability to predators stemmed from deeply buried, very early abusive experiences. Over time and partly through writing my story, I have come to see how much of my life experience was a chain reaction begun by early trauma, how seemingly unrelated events of divorce and poverty and family conflict cascaded from the original damage done.

Cultural factors of the mid-to-late twentieth century compounded the disastrous impact of my very early sexualization. In the 1940’s and 1950’s, I was schooled by Hollywood movies of sexless courtships and married couples sleeping in twin beds. Those movies also fostered the idea of fair treatment for all and swift exposure and punishment for persons who did bad things. Also working to my disadvantage was the belief held by children and grownups of my time that doctors, priests, and other church leaders were always trustworthy, always right, and next to gods. The joint power over me of these early cultural influences was explained by John F. Kennedy, who said, The great enemy of the truth is very often not the lie—deliberate, contrived, and dishonest—but the myth, persistent, persuasive, and unrealistic. 2 When the myths collided with the unrecognized sequala of the abuse, chaos ensued.

For more than thirty years, I have worked to complete these many pages of my story in an attempt to gather up the scattered pieces of my life and to place events into chronological order with the hope of feeling put back together again. Now I am ready to share my journey. No longer can I continue in silence because doing so would be an immoral choice. Silence does nothing to help former or future victims. Silence benefits only the predators and is what they hope for. Yet, you will not find, if you try, information about the perpetrators of my abuse or about other people or places in my life because I have changed the geographic locations of where all this occurred and have created fictitious names for everything and everyone including myself. I do this to guard the privacy of my family and that of the innocent families of my abusers. Also, at the request of one of my children, I have omitted some very impactful events that affected our whole family and especially that one child. My children have suffered more than their share because of my brokenness. Because they have chosen to deal with the past by turning away from it, I have chosen anonymity for them. All this interferes with showing up entirely as myself, but it is necessary.

Many good and faithful people appeared in my times of trouble. I find more of them still. I am a blessed person. I am grateful to all survivors who have had the courage, long before the #MeToo movement, to go public with their stories. Without their sharing, I may never have healed from my own victimization. I hope my story will help heal and strengthen other abuse victims, especially those who suffered sexual abuse and especially those of my generation, who may still be blaming themselves and who have remained silent or who have experienced censure, as I have, for trying to share their history.

Ryan Green, whose young son, Joel, lost the battle to cancer, challenged, The things that happen to us define us. They make who we are. They’re complex. They’re nuanced. They’re tragic and they’re beautiful. Life isn’t built on how well things have gone. It’s the whole crazy mess of it. 3

If my life, my whole crazy mess, reaches just one suffering soul and helps them in their recovery, the thousands of hours spent writing my story and the thousands of dollars spent on the project will have been worth it.

1. Miller, Alice, Thou Shalt Not Be Aware: Society’s Betrayal of the Child, (Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, New York, 1998).

2. Yale University Commencement Address, June 11, 1962, American Rhetoric, https://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/jfkyalecommencement.htm.

3. Green, Ryan, That Dragon, Cancer, Point of View, Oregon Public Broadcasting, November 24, 2016.

Chapter 1

In the Beginning

Life batters and shapes us in all sorts of ways before it’s done,

but those original selves which we were born with…

are selves which still echo with the holiness of their origin. 4

The new owner of my neighborhood grocery store, Mr. Gibson, is a very nice man and the store, just one block from home, becomes a favorite destination of the neighborhood children.

An unusual lady lives across the street from the store. It’s her misfortune to be neighbors with this store. There is a large barrel outside the store and we’re supposed to throw our candy bar and ice cream wrappers into it. Not everyone does; a trail of wrappers spreads in each direction eight feet out from the barrel. The wind lifts the trash and deposits it in Mrs. Crabapple’s tidy yard.

We kids all call this lady Mrs. Crabapple because she is crabby. She is married and childless. Her hair is worn in a tight bun on top of her head. Whether inside her home or out of doors, she is made a prisoner by the invisible bars she’s erected against us noisy kids. Her mouth turns down at the corners and she scowls at little children, saying we are too noisy. She shouts at us to stay away. She specifically lets me know she doesn’t want me coming near her perfectly-manicured grass.

Get out of here with that squeaky tricycle!

Despite her constant yelling and frowns directed my way, I tell Mom I want Mrs. Crabapple to like me.

We’ll ask your father to keep the wheels on your tricycle oiled so they won’t squeak. You ride slowly when you’re by her house and stay in the middle of the sidewalk so she won’t fear you’ll ride on her grass. If she comes out of the house, speak to her in your best, polite voice.

When Mrs. Crabapple washes her hair, she comes outside to dry it. She leans over and lets her long hair fall forward, then begins brushing. I carefully make my way up the sidewalk, riding slowly in the middle. From her bent-over position, she suspiciously glances my way. I quietly pedal closer on my wheels that do not squeak. I’m all cleaned up and trying with all my might to look innocent and very polite. It must be working. She doesn’t say a thing, just keeps on brushing her long, silky hair.

The following week when I leave Mr. Gibson’s store, I unwrap my ice cream bar and carefully throw the paper in the barrel. Then I gather up all the papers from the ground and dump them in. Mrs. Crabapple is bent over brushing her shiny, clean hair. I see her sneak a peek at my good deeds. I repeat this routine for several more weeks, alternating the clean-up with silent, respectful observation of her hair brushing. One day as I’m watching her brush her hair, she asks, What’s your name?

My name is Gloria, I reply with all the respectful, polite tone I can muster. You sure have pretty hair.

Mrs. Crabapple’s mouth hints of a smile; it’s enough for me. I’m delighted, thinking she likes me. I keep pedaling up her sidewalk to watch as she brushes her hair. She begins visiting with me. She is a hard-won friend.

Sweet memory.

From before Mr. Gibson and before Mrs. Crabapple, unconscious, buried memories both lie dormant and work to shape my life. Mr. Hinkley, the former grocery store man weighing me in a counter-top scale, fussing over me with kisses. Later a back room, different kisses, carcasses on hooks, the smell of blood, a live chicken butchered before me, touching/knives, terror, and ice cream when it is over. I am afraid of this man, the owner of the store before Mr. Gibson, but I’m also attracted to him. He is, after all, the ice cream man. None of this is consciously accessible to me, but decades later I sketch a scene from a nightmare and my brother exclaims that it is just as he remembers the corner grocery store, even Mr. Hinkley’s appearance. Still more years later I learn from my Aunt Helen that she and my mother were revulsed by this man, who, unknown to them, molested me. I remember nothing more about that back room even now; for protection I locked it all away in a deep and dark safe.

Even before Mr. Hinkley—before I could form full sentences—harm lurks in the house across the street. An older girl lives there and I love to play with her. She is strong and gives the best airplane rides. She grabs one hand and one foot on the same side and whirls me round and round, spinning me higher and higher. I worship her because she can burp whenever she wants to. But while I’m admiring her, her father sizes me up. He takes me into the bathroom and exposes my bare butt. He next removes his trousers and sits down on the toilet. I’m lifted up on his lap to give pleasure to his erect penis. It’s discovered what he’s doing with me when I say enough, stringing a few words together, to make it clear what has happened. From my parents’ reaction, I know it was not nice. I forget it all.

But maybe not quite. As a toddler, I have a peculiar habit. When a visitor arrives, I immediately withdraw, go to a corner, put my head down with my rump up in the air, and remain there until they leave. Although it is told as a family story, understanding the implication of this behavior remains obscured for more than seventy years. Then I understand: children reenact what has been done to them.

Up until the across-the-street neighbor’s perversion is discovered, as a toddler, I enjoyed my father’s affection. He would pick me up to ride on his shoulders or hold me in his arms. Mother says he almost never put me down. When family would visit, he would sit with me in a rocking chair and I would rest my head on his chest and would be soothed by his deep voice. All that changed with my parents’ discovery of the molestation.

I love my daddy. When he comes home from work, I dash over to him and throw my arms around his lower legs. When I do so, seemingly confused, he says Go away. Go away. I do not understand.

4. Buechner, Frederick, Telling Secrets (Harper Collins, New York, 1991).

Chapter 2

The Friendly Witch and Scared Little Sinner

My story is important not because it is mine, God knows, but because if I tell it anything like right, the chances are you will recognize that in many ways it is also yours. 5

My father is Catholic. Before he broke from the faith, he worked as a janitor in the church. Grandma Vickler laundered the altar boys’ smocks, the clerical collars, and altar linens; however, by the time my father met my mother, he was angry with the Catholic Church. We children are unaware of the reason for it, but we are not raised Catholic.

Mother reads stories to me from Men of Might and Valor and Women of the Bible while I lie on her bed. I enjoy hearing about Moses, King David, Sampson, and others. Mary, Martha, Esther, and Ruth (my favorite) appear in the stories. I want to be loyal like Ruth when I grow up.

The summer of 1941, when I’m four years old, the young minister of the First Friends Church and his wife invite my mother to send me to Vacation Bible School three blocks from home. A gentle, loving, and kind teacher holds up a picture of a man with long, flowing hair, like the one I’ve seen on grandmother’s living room wall. He’s standing at a door with his hand raised to knock. My teacher says that I have a door in my heart. Jesus is knocking on that door. He wants me to open it and let him come in to live there. Once I let him in, he will sit down and dine with me. I am filled with an indescribable love for Jesus.

How do I open the door, Teacher?

Just close your eyes, Gloria. Do you see the door to your heart? Reach for the handle and open it and ask Jesus to come into your heart.

It is easy for my keen child’s imagination to see the door in my heart and to visualize turning the knob and opening it. I silently ask Jesus to come in and live in my heart. I’m overtaken by something I’ve never felt before. I will repeatedly call upon that moment and memory in the difficult years ahead.

My teacher asks, Did you do it, Gloria?

Yes, Teacher!

This is a happy moment in my life. Now I will never be alone.

Some members of the Tatum family, who live in our neighborhood, have criminal history and others of them will make criminal history during my growing up years. The father, Eustice, sodomized his sons and was sentenced for impregnating his young daughter; four sons were imprisoned for rape; and a few years later when I was a young teen, the younger sons, Shelby and Dakota, were convicted of rape and murder and were executed, while a Tatum daughter later ran a brothel. Only one living son and one deceased, as reported in the newspaper, escaped the criminal climate of the family.

I learn years later that on one occasion Mother discovered Dakota Tatum and an older Tatum sister in our basement in the act of removing my brother’s and my underpants; she wasn’t sure about what all took place or how often this might have happened. I myself do not consciously remember it until after a flashback in 1990 when I am fifty-three and seeing a therapist. Even then I am unsure of details: Did future murderer Shelby Tatum also enter our basement? I do remember that when he and his capital crime moved into the news in my early teen years, I experienced negative vibes every time I heard his name. I also remember having lots of fear about anyone with slick black hair like his. Once, when I’m in my late forties and am researching state archives for other information, a photo of Shelby falls out of the many boxes of papers. I startle as though shocked by electricity and I freeze like an animal, my blood turning to ice as I struggle to calm my rapid pulse and stifle weeping. I quickly cover the image to regain my composure. Only later after the flashback when I talk again to my elderly aunt do I get confirmation that Shelby also was discovered in my basement engaging in sex play with me and my brother.

I never knew how much my father learned about our being molested in the basement, but he must have known something because he suddenly sealed up the outdoor entrance to it and built a large enclosed back room with a locking entry that allowed only secure indoor access to the basement and to our home.

The damage, however, had been done. His efforts did not reverse the premature sexualization that the abuse initiated in me or prevent me from seeking that place beneath our home to relieve an overwhelming sexual need thrust upon me at too early an age. Buried and forgotten memories of the deep perversion acted out in the Tatum family and upon me and my brother would drive me to seek the basement again and again. It was a dark, gloomy, cold and unfinished place that held a power over me I was unable to understand or escape. Time and again, I hid in the dirt cellar behind the main part of the basement and behind a closed door. All those earlier molestations, no longer remembered, including the buried abuse by the Tatums unleashed sexual arousal and satisfaction long before my ability to understand it or know how to cope with or control it. Rather than pleasuring myself, I was acting out the perverted abuse that beset me with sexuality too soon, laying down layer upon layer of guilt, shame, and self-loathing that I would carry for most of my life.

A little girl grew into a teenager and later into a divorced woman in her late twenties who was extremely frightened of the strength of her sexuality. I believed I must never unleash it. Therefore, as a teen, I thought I had to remain a virgin and later in my twenties to live in celibacy because of my belief that a perverted female lurked just beneath my surface. I was sure she would disgust a boyfriend or future husband if she was ever let loose.

Feeding into this self-judgment were the Hollywood movies of the times. In the 1940’s and 1950’s, I would sit in the theater and watch as young, glamorous women flirted and wore alluring clothing to make themselves beautiful and desirable. This posturing worked, delivering idolization and beautiful kisses, tender touches, and bouquets of flowers—never sex—regardless of how sexy or flirtatious the woman was presenting herself. In the movies when you flirted and fixed yourself up, a man wanted to do things for you, not to you.

Grade school was a joyous experience. It was a place where I could pretend to be another person, one who didn’t slip into a basement. I performed in plays, wearing incredible costumes sewn by my talented mother. I loved my teachers and received high praise and recognition for scholasticism and singing and drawing talents.

Singing in harmony is something my grandparents, mother, and aunts enjoyed as a group. When able to join in, I was thrilled and happy. It provided a wonderful sense of belonging. During our classroom talent shows at school, I was amazed that my singing moved fellow students to tears. Their display of the same emotions Mother’s singing evoked in me sealed a bond between my friends and me, and for years to come singing would provide release from bound-up emotions, some of which I didn’t understand.

When dismissed from grade school each day, I enjoy the company of my new imaginary friend, Mrs. Morenni, a good witch, who won’t talk to anyone but me. I keep her a secret from friends and from my mother. Imagined messages materialize in my mind. I pretend that secret messages from her to me could be found in torn bits of commercially printed paper that are scattered about the neighborhood.

I fantasize that she and I have secrets and that she has the power to warn and protect me. I sense her presence whenever I become frightened while walking or playing in certain parts of my neighborhood. When I fear playing in the empty field next to our home or walking by a certain house, I believe these feelings are a warning from Mrs. Morenni. I always obey her imagined warnings and soon feel safe in my pretend land. I do not recall the specific time when she disappears from my life.

After I become aware of having been abused very young, an idea comes to me that resonates with truth. If a child is silently saying to herself, some form of I don’t want this to happen anymore or an adult is comforting a young child when an abuse is discovered and says, I won’t let this happen anymore and anymore is repeated over and over with a changing cadence, it transitions into more any. Anymore, anymore, any more, any, more any, moreany, Morenni.

Nights are a different story. Beginning at about age five, a repetitive nightmare torments my sleep. In the dream, I awaken and stand before a picture frame. Everything appears to be space. Within the frame, a red carriage drawn by two white horses with several occupants appears on the far top right and begins moving slowly across the scene toward the lower left corner. The horses’ legs do not move. My brother and I are being led to the red carriage. The man in charge is dressed like the circus ringmaster wearing a red waistcoat. His smile says, I’m a nice man. But he isn’t. He has us get in the carriage. The sky is filled with large, pulsating drops; they droop down, the way in which a balloon sags when filled with water. They pulsate, pulsate, with a hypnotic rhythm. Night after night, Mother awakens me as I scream and cry in terror as though I am being chased. She calms me with her singing and leaves a light on in my closet.

Decades later, as an older woman and after years of therapy, I find the courage to identify the meaning of the dream where pulsating drops lead to fear. I think perhaps the ride in an open red carriage represented my brother pulling me about the neighborhood in our red wagon when I was small. Memories emerge in bits and pieces leaving me weeping and shattered from experiencing once again the terror: a penis pulsating against my child-sized hand during ejaculation.

As a child, I chose to bury those memories in forgetfulness because what I knew was too toxic, just as noted by hypnotherapist and author David Calof: In childhood, we all distance ourselves from unwanted aspects of our experience as well as from impulses and desires that are unacceptable. Things that threaten our sense of safety or our preferred sense of self are either pushed to the outskirts of awareness or disowned. 6

Often Mother guided my thoughts away from fear with her story of how my father delighted in purchasing me dolls at Christmas time. Mother often interpreted my father positively to me. She wanted me to believe how special and loved I was, so she related how he searched for the perfect doll out of love for his little girl. She may have done this to counteract my father’s reticence to show affection, which began in the aftermath of the discovery of my sexual abuse.

One Christmas, I am given a baby doll with cute clothing. At first, I enjoy her but later decide I don’t like her. My pretty lady dolls are my favorites. Their bodies gently curve with small bosoms and a subtle waistline. Mother sews small stylish wardrobes; a red coat with a fur collar, glamorous formal dresses, and daytime frocks with fancy trims. I dress and undress them, pretending I’m the beautiful dolls. But the play changes. After several hours of made-up conversations between my two lady dolls, the play changes. I take them into the empty fields of very tall, wild grasses by my home, adjacent to the Tatum family shack, and heave them backwards over my head, throwing them as hard as I can. Then I search for each in the tall grass and gaze with fascination at their grotesque, out-of-joint bodies. I feel guilty about this abuse of something beautiful. My father patiently and repeatedly repairs broken pieces. Apparently, no one recognizes this angry abuse of my dolls as a warning sign of something more sinister going on in my young life. Later, I have disquieting and vague shadow-memories of how those fields of tall grass may have hidden from the eyes of adults disturbing sex games and the painful twisting of an arm to stop me from crying or to serve as a threat to not tell.

I’ve learned from counseling sessions and books, whose names and authors I no longer know, that many survivors are like me and must live with the craziness of only partial recall of abuse rather than a very clear memory. Instead of verbal recall, memory of early childhood abuse is laid down in the body from the pain being experienced at that time. If the child’s brain is in the early stages of language development at the time of the abuse, later an adult survivor will struggle to find the words to fully describe what took place. The memory may only be linked to smells or sounds present during the abuse. It is human nature to want precise proof, but it is unavailable. 7 Conversations with my family have confirmed what I’ve read 8 —that this raises concerns not only for me the victim but also persons who wish to be compassionate and understanding when my abuse is revealed many years later.

And so, as a girl, young as I am, I’m living two lives separated from each other: one that is forgotten and one that is remembered. In my remembered life, I make friends with Mrs. Crabapple, play with my friends, and enjoy school. In my remembered life, every night my brother, Rollie, and I say our prayers with Mother at our bedside. While tucking us in, she sings to us a song about the old man of the mountain, how he talks with the birds when he’s lonely and sleeps with the stars for a tent and God charges no rent. Of all the songs she sings, this one is my favorite.

In the midst of our generally happy life, Mother becomes violently ill. She suffers with excruciating pain in the lower left abdominal area and is rushed to the hospital. Old Doc Lewis arrives to perform surgery and discovers a ruptured appendix, complicated by a gangrene infection and peritonitis. Mother’s appendix is located on the opposite side of her body from where it should be, so the true problem is not suspected. Sulfa drugs, which have recently become available, save her life. To my little girl heart, Dr. Lewis—and by extension all doctors—become gods.

Without a family car, my limited experience beyond the boundaries of the most immediate blocks of my neighborhood is ten blocks one way and about twenty the other to a movie theater. Outside those parameters, my sense of direction is nil. I’m convinced that if I go somewhere alone, very far beyond my small confines, I will get lost and nobody will find me.

A few bus trips to Spokane to shop unfold as magical because I am safe with my mother. The big adventure begins with us catching the local bus, destination: the interstate depot on the edge of town. Second only to Dr. Lewis, the local bus driver wins my heart with his graying, wavy hair, spectacles, and friendly greeting. Mother lets me drop the coins in the fare box. It’s a happy sound that reminds me of throwing bottle caps into a barrel to pay the price of admission to Saturday matinees. Exiting the bus at the end of the first trip, I hold my mother’s hand as she heads to the depot to purchase a ticket to Spokane. Next, we wait and watch the yellow, local busses arrive from their routes to drop off more passengers. Before long a large, shiny bus, much larger than the city buses, rounds the corner, its bright silver exterior gleaming in the sun. Mom and I fall in line with the others and wait to board. The driver is polite and friendly as he takes the paper ticket from Mother’s hand. This is neat! Nothing to fear here.

Everything registers intensely. I fall in love again, this time with this new bus driver when he nods his head at me and displays a gentlemanly smile. It’s a big bus and he is composed, professional, and courteous. He guides us through traffic while turning the large steering wheel with a master’s touch. He is trustworthy, a person capable of keeping me safe. My admiration soars and he quickly becomes one of my heroes. I immerse myself in the feel of the trip and puzzle over fellow passengers who seem indifferent. Don’t they realize what’s going on here?

Arriving in Spokane, we again step down from a hissing and huffing bus. Holding my hand in hers, Mother walks down the city streets and between buildings four to twelve floors taller than those in my home town. I marvel at how this magical mother of mine knows which way to turn. I have no idea where I am or how to get back to the bus. I’m content to remain within the protection of her decision making and I’m grateful to never be asked to venture off on my own.

Included in my consciously remembered childhood are wonderful memories of fishing trips with Uncle Frank, Rollie, and my cousin Rudy. I would manage to finagle them into taking me along. Parking near the river, we’d push through tall grass with poles slung over our shoulders. After soaking up sunshine and maybe even catching a few fish, we’d fall in line behind Uncle Frank to head back to the car. We were barefoot, carrying our shoes because part of the walk was wet mud. Nothing seemed more exquisite than feeling warm mud squishing up between my toes as we sang and hollered out the chorus of a silly song.

It’s 1946. I am nine and my brother, twelve. An improving economy helps Mom and Dad purchase a shiny, sleek, pop-up toaster and an electric waffle maker. At family gatherings, the potluck dinners are sumptuous with cream-laden side dishes. Green beans contain both bacon and slivered almonds. A fancy lace cloth graces the table. This is living!

It’s also about this age, when I am about nine, that I become afraid to go into my closet or to approach my bedroom window at night to pull down the shade. While lying in bed, I imagine barely discernable voices that frantically whisper warnings to watch out and be careful. At other times, the voice is condemning in tone. This disturbs me, but I say nothing about it to anyone.

When mother asks me to walk to the corner grocery store alone and bring home groceries, I agonize each step of the way, certain every neighbor is looking out their window at my butt moving while I walk. I hate my butt.

Grandma’s concerned because Rollie and I do not attend a church. Mother agrees to let her take us with her to the Fifth Avenue Savior’s Church she attends. I enjoy Sunday School taught by a vibrant and beautiful young lady. Sometimes it’s confusing because my adored teacher will teach one thing and then I discover she does another that isn’t like what she has taught about the way believers should behave. She teaches that wearing makeup and too much jewelry is a sin and that movies are very sinful, the ruination of youth. She can’t mean my heroes of the Saturday matinees! Mother and I talk about this, and Mother agrees with me that movies are not sinful, leaving me puzzled about who is the authority on sin.

I am shocked when I see my saintly teacher in the community wearing makeup and fancy jewelry and attending a movie. I lose interest in Sunday School. Grandma is unhappy with me. I like pleasing her so I agree to attend the worship hour with her. I enjoy sitting in the pew with Grandma Mason and hearing her powerful and excellent singing voice. It’s a great feeling to sing along with her the rousing hymns of a believer.

When the singing is over, Pastor Sinclair preaches up a storm and people weep, raise their hands, and shout, Amen! and Hallelujah! Church is a scary place, the opposite of grandmother’s calm, soothing voice when she prays aloud at home. How do these two go together? That old, but new to me, message rings out from the pulpit, Are you saved? You’re not saved unless you come up here, right now, to this altar, and kneel down and cry out to God to save you. Get out of your seats, you who are not saved. Save yourself from the fires of hell!

Pastor Sinclair continues to shout, Get up out of your seat.

I get up, all right; but instead of heading for the altar, I quickly walk to the back doors, stumble down the steps, and break into a run for home, certain that Satan is running behind me trying to snag me with his pitchfork. The following Sunday I pray there won’t be another altar call. Maybe Pastor Sinclair will figure he’s got everyone all saved and stop yelling about the sinners at Jimmy’s Tavern and the fires of Hell, the evils of movies and the wearing of gaudy jewelry and makeup.

My hopes are soon dashed by shouts of fire and brimstone. I want to run home again but force myself to stay on account of Grandma. I’m scared to death; I’ve never gone to an altar, so I must not be saved and the fires of hell must await. The preacher leaves no doubt: sinners will burn in Hell for eternity with weeping and gnashing of teeth. Yet, how can I be evil? I don’t wear makeup or jewelry. I’ve never been to Jimmy’s Tavern and Mother’s given me a pass on movies. I ascertain that the only thing left is something I never talk about—God knows about the basement and the way I touch my body and how it gives me pleasure. This must be the sin that will send me to Hell because Mother caught me once and said, I thought you were better than that. God is watching.

That’s got to be it.

Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. I get out of my seat, make my way to the front of the church, kneel down at the altar, and beg God to forgive me. Grandma comes up and kneels beside me, saying, Praise God; thank you, Jesus. She’s grateful her granddaughter will not burn in Hell. But, I’m not so sure. Have I really secured eternity and am I really saved from those eternal fires?

Contrary to Pastor Sinclair’s condemnation of movies, that Easter I find spiritual inspiration in the portrayal of Jesus in the silent film The King of Kings. At one point in the film, however, and despite my supposedly being saved, when Jesus casts out demons from Mary Magdalene, I feel Satan stomping around in my heart. I knew it! He’s found a dark corner there in which to hide. I’ll never be rid of him or the tormenting sex drive that I don’t know how to name.

As I’m approaching the age of twelve, I’m miserably sick with stomach flu and can’t stop vomiting. Mother makes an appointment with good old Doc Lewis. I’m filled with hope and hero worship for the doctor. He appears godly in his pure white medical coat. Seated in front of him, I tell him of my misery. He takes out a prescription pad to write a magic concoction. Soon after I begin to faithfully dose myself, I’m free from vomiting and feel grateful. To my almost twelve-year-old heart, a doctor is the most trustworthy and wisest of men.

I write a thank you note on Mother’s beautiful floral stationery. Before sealing the envelope, I add a dash of Mother’s perfume—an ultimate expression from young girls of the time. The perfume means You are as noble as Superman when he saves damsels in distress.

5. Beuchner, Fredrick, Telling Secrets (Harper Collins Publishing, New York, 1999).

6. Calof, David with Simons, Robin, The Woman Whose Eyes Refused to See, The Couple Who Became Each Other and Other Tales of Healing from a Hypnotherapist’s Casebook (Bantam Books, New York, 1996), p. 281.

7. Author(s) unknown.

8. Author unknown.

Chapter 3

Manufacturing Normalcy

When one is a stranger to oneself

then one is estranged from others too. 9

Murder! It happens just blocks from the hospital where I was born. Facts about the recovered body of a young woman who has been reported missing seep into the conversations in my home when my detective uncle becomes part of the case. In early 1950, the police issue a warrant for Shelby and Dakota Tatum and their pictures appear in local papers. I hear more about this than the general public because my policeman uncle is also the police photographer. After dinner one evening, the adults are looking at the autopsy photo of Josie’s nude body. I sneak up to the chair my mother is sitting in and see gaping wounds on the murdered girl and incorrectly believe she was stabbed to death. That erroneous assumption, together with the forgotten butcher at the corner grocery, will rise up years later to trigger a flashback that will cause me to flee my home in fear.

I’m in seventh grade. Five weeks before, I celebrated my thirteenth birthday. The Tatum brothers are older than when they sneaked into the basement of my home to molest me and my brother. I am deeply disturbed by their names and images despite my psyche having buried the violation. The result is feeling as if I’m carrying a heavy weight, but I have no idea what it is all about. So, what does a young girl subconsciously do to continue forgetting about a sexualized past? I boast to Mother at every opportunity, "When I get married, I’m going to be a virgin." Being a virgin is the very best way to unconsciously make believe and to remain in denial about the ugly truths of what happened to me when I was small.

Throughout grade school, I have had two very close girlfriends named Lillian and Sarah. They were never involved in any of the sexual encounters of my childhood. It is such a relief to have this little island of friendship. However, by the time I reach junior high, although there are many young people I really like and with whom I share activities, I avoid becoming close to anyone due to a misunderstanding that leaves me feeling abandoned. I judge it best to guard my trust.

My mother’s guidance emphasizes being a role-model for other young people, and this cements my oath to remain a virgin until marriage.

Gloria, she says, You never know when a youngster may be looking to you for an example of good behavior. You’re popular. When you do something wrong and an admiring child sees it, you may cause that person injury. You may think your act is insignificant but don’t forget that people are watching for an example to follow, Mom continued.

This is a lot of responsibility. I hope I don’t disappoint everybody.

Sunset Junior High School’s a social whirl. Many new faces serve as a distraction from talk about the local murder by my perpetrators. Former enemies from other grade school’s athletic teams become boys who make my heart flutter. Girls wear the rings of a steady boyfriend on chains around their necks. How do they make that happen? No young boy at school has sought me out in a way I recognize. I can’t imagine how to flirt. Maybe that’s a good thing, I think, because it might lead to something very sinful.

My brother is a good-looking young man. He wears his dark hair in a pompadour with the long sides swept to the back to meet and form what is called duck wings. One of his closest friends, Rick Shields, is often at our home. He’s skinny, wears horn-rimmed glasses, and has a crew cut that reveals ears that stick out. He’s got a crush on me; and though I’m flattered, it at times is an irritation. Mother has a soft spot in her heart for him and wishes I were kinder to this smitten young man. I’m not exactly cruel toward him, but perhaps a bit impatient. If only I had been capable of seeing this young man for the gem he was, might my life have turned out differently? He will pass through my life several years later and only then I will see his true value.

The words petting and heavy necking are spoken in boastful whispers by classmates. I don’t like the facial expressions on people talking about this. I won’t pet and neck until after I’m married. Though I don’t consciously articulate it, my virginity is the only thing that makes me worthy in my own mind.

The boundaries of my life have increased: ten blocks east and forty blocks north walking to school. That’s an increase of twenty blocks!! My second year in junior high school brings additional opportunities. My artistic talents place me in the spotlight. I campaign for and win the race for student body secretary. But no matter how many kids like me and no matter how much praise I receive from teachers, I’m never free from fearing that my dirty secret, what happens in the basement of my home, will become known to others. Yet, I can’t stop. It’s as if two distinct personalities live inside me, the one who is gutsy enough to campaign for an office and loves performing for others and the other one who feels dirty and vulnerable and uncomfortable with being popular, who lives in fear of discovery of her sinful nature.

I create a bubble world from which I perform interactions at school. I hide what I’m ashamed of behind friendliness, which further convinces me that I’m a phony. Excelling in art, singing, and athletics gives the appearance of a socially well-adjusted thirteen-year-old, and even I am occasionally convinced it’s true. I’m amazed at how great life seems when I too am able to believe in Gloria.

The summer before entering my sophomore year, I start voice lessons with the high school choir director, Mr. Shell. These lessons are a luxury, considering my father’s limited finances! Soon with the application of my teacher’s techniques, I discover a new singing voice, one fuller in tone and volume. My parents are thrilled with my new voice. Excited about my potential, Mr. Shell selects Negro spirituals, religious songs, and light opera for me to practice and perform. I’m able to convincingly interpret the stories in the lyrics. Singing the stories of current popular tunes allows me to experience emotions that are difficult for me to feel otherwise. The songs especially have the ability to transform sexual stirrings into societally accepted romance. A romantic feeling is okay, unlike those other all-consuming sexual urges. Thus, during singing performances, I find release for my pent-up sexual drive. Love song lyrics are the same as themes straight out of the movies where romance, rather than sex, is emphasized. I like this new romantic part of me.

Moving to high school in my sophomore year, I become part of a student body exceeding 1,500 students, all crammed into an old multi-story building. My ability to remain within a protective container of mental games increases in difficulty. But that strange ability to separate from parts of myself allows me to take a gamble. I audition for the concert choir and for an elite singing ensemble. Although sophomores have never been accepted into membership of either group, I am chosen to sing in both.

The first football game of the season is scheduled. I can cheer for the home team as a high school girl! The athletes race onto the field. I’m screaming with the others when I spot a dark-complexioned young man in jersey number eight. The crowd shouts, Rob—Rob—Rob. He’s a football hero! I could never be lucky enough to be with a guy like him, but I can dream. Thus begins my pattern of forming huge crushes on guys who are not available. It’s safe from a distance to feel intense emotions, the longing for a kiss, because Rob has a steady girlfriend. He is perfect for me to love.

Performing more often provides me with more frequent escape and sense of fulfillment. When I’m singing to an audience, I can leave myself behind and become the situation or person of which the lyrics speak. It is a safe venue for expression.

Fortune blesses me when a classmate encourages me to audition for a weekly radio program that features young people and is broadcast to cities in two states. I’m not surprised when I win the audition. I’m proud to be taking the interstate bus by myself and to be learning the way to the radio station on my own. The route is simple: down one block, a right turn, then walk about six blocks to where the building sits on a dead-end street. I have no fear of getting lost!

The director and organizer of the Washington Gazette Traveling Entertainers, Loren McDougal, is charmed by my singing and chooses me to be a member of the troupe. Warm, energetic and respectful of us teenagers, Loren receives our respect in return and serves as a perfect chaperone when we travel. He advocates for my talent and wins for me a television appearance on a popular show where I sing his favorite song, April in Portugal. The host presents me as a wholesome, accomplished youth of the times. If he really knew everything about me, would I still be given that introduction?

Having been convicted of the murder of Josie Dunning, my former neighbors receive five stays of execution. During all that time, my uncle expounds on the case, propelling me out of my happier frame of mind. Then a month before my sixteenth birthday, Shelby and Dakota Tatum are executed for murder. Despite no memory of what I suffered at their hands, I suddenly am flooded with a feeling of being free. Dramatically, a new person emerges and pairs with my new singing voice.

My acceptance into a choir usually reserved for juniors and seniors furthers my escape from entrapment in shame. It’s a big feather in my cap. The more ancient me nearly disappears. The jostling of crowded halls and stairways take on a new life. I love it! Greeting classmates and walking with new confidence compares to those glorious trips on my bicycle when I discovered the exciting freedom of movement and the safety of speed.

Other than high school dances, few dates occur. With the end of the school year approaching, I seriously injure my knee, tearing ligaments and breaking cartilage. The doctor does surgery and avoids leaving a long scar on my leg. Again, my admiration for a doctor knows no bounds.

When I awaken from the anesthetic, the nurse enters grinning widely. You have a visitor, Gloria.

It’s Dodie Ashland, a tall, bulky girl with protruding eyes and slow intelligence. Her walk is clumsy and her voice, thick. The high school students call her Retard and their taunting hurts. We became acquainted the first day of sophomore biology class. When Dodie sat down beside me, I decided to befriend this shy girl so often ignored or made fun of. I fondly remember how she was overjoyed when I invited her to sit with me in Girl’s League assembly. Her appreciation of my kindnesses has motivated her to make a twelve-block walk, despite the heat. Perspiration glistens on her forehead and upper lip; but wearing a big grin, she clutches at a small bouquet of wild flowers for me that have wilted from the long walk. Her demonstration of loyalty and affection stuns me. It required very little of me to generate it.

A week before the Senior Prom, while I am still navigating with crutches, the telephone rings.

Hello?

Hi, Gloria. This is Rob Ortiz.

Sure, it is. Somebody must be playing a joke. Rob, Jersey No. 8, again identifies himself. He knows who I am. Can this really be happening? Why on earth is this gorgeous guy calling me? I break the awkward silence on my end of the line. Rob? It’s nice of you to call.

The reason I’m calling is because I would like to invite you to attend the senior prom with me.

9. Lindberg, Anne Morrow, For Today (Overeaters Anonymous, Rio Rancho, NM, 1982).

Chapter 4

Heartthrob

When you wish upon a star

makes no difference who you are.

Anything your heart desires

will come to you. 10

Knock me over with a feather! What an incredible invitation. Images of being on the arm of this school heartthrob at the biggest senior dance of the year frolic through my thoughts. Looking at my cast brings me back to reality.

But Rob, my leg is still in a cast. I can’t dance. Did you forget that? My mind whirls. Jersey No. 8 on the football team wants to take me somewhere!

That’s no problem. We don’t have to dance. Or, we could try some of the slow songs. How can you say no?

I don’t. If he’s game, I’m game.

The double-date evening is magical. A lowly sophomore chosen by this football star. Rob is the most handsome creature I have ever seen. I pin on the orchid corsage he brought me and then hobble toward his car. My cast forces me to cuddle up against Rob in the back seat. I have no worry of appearing less than a lady because of that magnificent excuse for getting close.

Everyone at the dance must be envious of my date. This is one of the biggest thrills I’ve known. It’s just like in the movies. At the conclusion of the dance, he takes me to dinner. He’s a quiet and thoughtful gentleman, and for the first time, I am looking forward to the end of the evening. This time there’d be no backing away from a kiss, not from this prince charming. But I never get the chance. Rob says good night in a princely way and leaves me standing at my front door. Sweet sixteen and I’m not getting my kiss. He’s being true to his steady, whose religion doesn’t allow dancing.

The remainder of the school year and summer months finds me traveling with the entertainment troupe. Loren McDougal takes me under his wing and assigns me the job of seeking out the organizer of the scheduled events where we entertain and thanking them for inviting the troupe and hosting us. A more confident Gloria is being formed as I’m being nudged out of comfort zones. I’m also gaining poise on stage as a performer.

After Rob leaves town for college, the object of my desire is Drake Clayton, the steady boyfriend of a fellow classmate. His being safely unavailable allows my sexual fantasies to safely run rampant. His manner toward his girlfriend displays value and respect, which amazes me because her sexual attraction for him is obvious.

For our annual fall concert, the music department undertakes the popular musical The King and I, which has a secondary theme of thwarted love. During auditions, I am chosen to play Tup Tim, who belongs to the king but loves Lun Tha. The King of Siam is played by my secret love, Drake Clayton. I am enthralled when I see him in costume. His stylized shirt, open to the waist, reveals a glimpse of bare chest and his beautifully muscled, track-star thighs are draped in shimmering fabric that ends at his muscular calves. It is the first time I have focused on a boy’s body. When I take the elevated stage for my duet with the young man portraying Lun Tha, though looking directly into the face of my duet partner, through the lyrics I sing my heart out to Drake.

Despite watching many flirtatious actresses on screen, I am frustrated with my inability to flirt. Do I have the right to let Drake know how I feel about him? Is it unfair to his steady? I have no answers to those questions, and I don’t pose them to anyone.

My traveling troupe is to be featured during the 1953 Christmas season at the Argon Theater in Spokane. Loren asks me to wear my white formal for the sold-out concert and to sing White Christmas. I do not know that Ralph Ford, a talent scout for Variety Magazine, the Hollywood publication, will be in the audience. Even though he has specifically come to hear me sing and has asked Loren for an introduction with hopes of grooming me for a career, Loren flatly refuses, telling him firmly to wait until I graduate.

My brother completes his community college and, although the Korean War is ending, he enlists in the Army. Our father, who was ineligible for the World War II draft, is filled with pride because his son will serve his country. It seems like so little time has passed since Rollie and I were growing up together. During his college days, our lives were no longer as closely entwined, but my love for him has never diminished. I’m so proud to see him go.

In the summer following my junior year, the phone rings. Gloria, this is Drake Clayton. At the sound of his voice, my jaw drops. I’m dumbfounded! Did he, after all, happen upon the poem I’d left on a desk where I thought he’d find it, a poem I had written describing a burning passion?

He explains, You’ve been selected to be an international exchange student. The American Field Service of the International Scholarship Foundation has chosen me for my scholarship, adaptability, and good, all-around citizenship, but I do not believe that to be a description of me and did not even know I was being considered.

My customary anxiety attack when asked to accept unfamiliar challenges begins with fear and doubt. This unsolicited challenge, if accepted, will place me a continent away from my controlled environment. I believe my intelligence and capabilities are below average. During my school years, I have analyzed fellow students who got either good or poor grades and concluded that lower grades were given to students with whom teachers clash. Top grades were handed out to cooperative students with outgoing personalities. Therefore, the way for me to get a good grade was to get along with the teacher, polish my cuteness factor, and divert the teacher’s attention with my personality because as long as I continue playing that game, my real shortcomings, which I am convinced are not being a nice girl and not being as smart as others, will remain undetected.

No way would I be able to continue masking my lower-than-average brain power in Germany, where there would be less time to fool my hosts with only personality. Besides, my cheap shoes are from J.C. Penney! I don’t speak the language. It’s too far away. What if I got lost? How does one pack clothes for three months? How would I ever cope with boarding a train, stopping over in Washington, D.C., then going on to New York to join 400 other students, let alone board a chartered steamship for Europe?

But the main issue is something else. If I lived with and spent the summer as an