The First Stone: A Gay Daughter's Survival in a Religious World

By Samiel Kalin

What a an adorable child!; many people must have said when first meeting the precocious little girl on the front cover. Like a beautiful sunset before a long storm, her life was about to enter emotional turbulence that would last for decades. Can one innocent child endure years of abuse, rejection and condemnation and emerge from that with emotiona

• Language: English
• Publisher: CanyonWalker Press
• Release date: May 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781619200333

Book preview

title

The First Stone

Published by:

Canyonwalker Press

Reno, NV USA

www.CanyonWalkerPress.com

Edited by: Elaine Bellamore Phillips

Cover design by Andrea Ferguson, 320Designs.com

Copyright © 2014 by Samiel Kalin

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014939650

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-61920-030-2

Contents

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

chapter

Preface

Abuse inflicted at a young age has a scaring effect that we carry the rest of our life. When we have those kinds of scars, finding peace and happiness resides in understanding how those scars affect our choices and most commonly our relationships with ourselves and others. Once we are clear about how the past effects our present experiences, we can learn to choose differently despite the strong pull to continuously do things and choose similar people who might be harmful to us. Making healthy choices enables us to heal bit by bit and ultimately find peace.

Any abused person will tell you they have a sixth sense about people; A type of radar. Our brains interpret certain characteristics in others as scary and warn us to stay away. Since most people seem a little scary to those of us with scars we learn to turn down the alarms set off by that radar or ignore them. By radar, I mean that tickle in our stomach when faced with a suspicious situation or person, or the inner thought that says this doesn’t sound right, beware. For those of us still trying to heal, people with rigid boundaries might appear unsafe because we have trouble reading these types and not being able to predict them is too scary to tolerate. We turn off the radar so we can be in a relationship. Otherwise, we would be isolated and in constant desire for a loving connection.

When our brains are too young to understand the motivations of people and to independently decipher what’s written about the true nature of God, we have no choice but to rely on what we have learned from those closest to us. When those we have relied on also abandon and reject us before we are capable of independent judgment, we are left with no direction to find our deeply coveted connection to love and protection.

We teach ourselves that all those internal bells and whistles are not reliable and therefore we can’t trust ourselves. When we are young that statement also translates into there’s something wrong with me. We become vigilant to find out what’s wrong with us, so that we can change it and therefore become lovable again. These thoughts are easily made shifts that children and young adults make without realizing it.

It is also easy to assume that being immersed in religion and having that framework to rely on is a saving grace except when those religious elders are also the ones predicting your punishment while professing to care for you. Combine that with the ultimate rejection by the the ultimate father and all of a sudden we are adrift with nothing tethering us, no attachments, no code to live by, and no protection. How does anyone survive and allow themselves to be loved again?

Our only option is to teach ourselves to be factual in our thinking, stop the language that escalates internal drama and learn to take care of ourselves ASAP. It is hard. We all need help to do it effectively but we can do it, as Sam Kalin demonstrates.

Once we build a string of successful conscious choices rather than being pulled by the familiar and ruled by fear, we begin to feel more confident and we eventually start to shrink, down to size, that part of us that fears we are unlovable. With more confidence it is easier to value ourselves and to begin to express gratitude and appreciation for the non-tangible esoteric parts of life. I believe gratitude, appreciation and forgiveness are the foundations of resilience. Each part of that foundation becomes more available to us as we make conscious decisions based on reason and truth and not the untrustworthy emotions born out of abuse and fear.

Here is the good news. Once we have that foundation of resiliency established, we begin to notice that we don’t have to rebuild ourselves every time a hurtful thing occurs and we can begin to feel happy.

Much has been written the last 20 years on the torturous effects of abuse. Even more has been written by victims of abuse on the ugly terrifying details and their gradual awakening to despicable acts. This book is different from what you have read before. You will not read devastating details but you will read about a life with not just one painful type of abuse but many types. Sam Kalin doesn’t write with sentimentality or anger but rather she presents her life of over 50 years without drama or exaggeration and with strength and determination.

Ms Kalin uses every coping skill we all have used with no success. She, like the rest of us, wanted to slide forever into despair and denial. She fought with weapons and armor like most warriors. But how do you use those tools and coping skills on people and fleshless loved ones, some you still admire? The remarkable thing is she found her strength and her path in a love so powerful that she rigorously mounts one defense after another, all for one simple goal. A goal she ultimately satisfies.

Intellectually and efficiently crafted, this book is powerfully packed with insight and gravity. Samiel (Sally Ann) Kalin discovers that a simple statement can overcome terrific challenges and help her discover all the pieces that make up one hell of a woman.

Bobbie Vash, M.Ed., LPC, CRC

Transition Counselor

chapter

CHAPTER ONE

Ihave known my whole life I would write this book. I knew it when I was a teenager and had lived through just the first decades. Little did I know I would have to live another 40 years to know the ending.

My people are from the American South. Years ago, my father’s people came from Europe while my momma’s people were hunting the hills of Arkansas, long before it was Arkansas. A few generations later, fate would have them in the same city at the same time. It wasn’t announced with fanfare or fireworks, but this is where my history began.

Wherever they might have come from both families found their way to New Orleans. My dad’s father had been a small-town sheriff in Mississippi. He and my grandmother were raising seven children: six boys, one girl. Grandpa dropped dead of a heart attack and left grandma with all those kids. Shortly after his death, she headed to the city with her brood in hand.

My mother’s family was part of the Chickasaw Indian tribe in northern Arkansas. She had two brothers and, while they were very young, their mother ran off with the family doctor. My grandpa packed up the kids and moved to Louisiana.

In the fall of 1951 my father was on break from seminary. After a stint in the Army he was using the G.I. Bill to go to school in St. Louis where he hoped to become an ordained minister. It seemed like a natural decision because, in this family, the calling to be a minister was strong. All of his brothers were led to become preachers, as well. It was a family legacy. I guess you could say religion was the family’s business.

Having finished high school around the same time, my mother continued to live with and take care of her father. He had never remarried and, in the South, that’s what good daughters did.

While walking to the bus stop my father passed a beautiful young girl sitting on the porch of her home. He was smitten. He stopped and struck up a conversation with her and he asked her out. She had to go ask her father who turned them down. But they didn’t let that stop them. Within the week they were married and my mother moved back to St. Louis with her new husband so he could continue school.

This whirlwind romance was unacceptable, at best, to my mother’s family. First, she did not have her father’s permission to date my father, let alone, to marry him. They had eloped over the state line so no family was invited to the ceremony. The same feelings were shared on my father’s side: his mother being almost unforgiving about not being included in the ceremony. Meeting only one week before the nuptials, there wasn’t much to be known of the bride and her family but the newlyweds were in St. Louis and all the family turmoil was back in Louisiana. The about-to-be minister and his new bride had broken about half a dozen southern traditions but, being so far away, all the family could really do was grumble.

It wasn’t until the fall of his senior year, when I was born; things began to turn around for my mom and dad. They decided my being a girl was the perfect opportunity to make peace with his mama by naming me after her. She already had a half dozen grandchildren but I would be her namesake. After he finished seminary and move back to the area my grandma forgot all about how angry she had become after their elopement. My father was the third Hays to become ordained. With his new wife and child my father assumed his position as part of a righteously powerful, spiritually connected family that seemed to be hardwired to God.

When you hear the term southern evangelical what do you think of? The ladies you see with the long skirts and a Baptist bubble hair do with a half bang? You know, the hairdo that takes every hair a woman has ever grown and wraps it around her head to form some sort of beehive. They don’t show skin and they don’t cut their hair. The list of don’ts can be quite long depending on how dedicated their personal beliefs.

Most of the items on that list have to do with the behavior of women and what’s expected of them. My mom noticed the brothers who were already ordained seem to have strong leanings toward the more rigid teachings.

Maybe it was this observation that made her a little bit feisty when it came to accepting my father’s position and her place in it.

His roots were Pentecostal, which can be very strident. No smoking, no drinking, no dancing, no music except hymns, absolutely no sexual contact before marriage and, depending on the affiliation, it can be quite difficult to live with for a normal family. But the minister’s family is supposed to be plugged into God and have a closer walk in the spirit. They are expected to be role models and leaders for the congregants. After finishing school the new pastor, with family in tow, went back to New Orleans to begin looking for employment as a newly ordained minister of God.

It was during this time of transition my little brother was born in New Orleans. I had been born in St. Louis and it was joked about from time to time I was a Yankee because I had been born north of the Mason-Dixon Line. However, despite where I’d been born, I was part of a family that seemed to be in direct contact with heaven.

When my father was offered a small, but dedicated, pastorate in a rural Louisiana town he knew it was just a stepping stone to bigger and better things. It was the perfect chance to hone his skills, help my mom develop her’s as a minister’s wife, and it was a great place to raise children. This church was affiliated with the Baptists so, even though it was not as radical in some of their beliefs, it was still church and still a major part of any good southerner’s life. Wednesday night Bible Study, Thursday night choir practice, Friday night prayer meeting, and two services on Sunday. My brother and I were too young to know what was going on but it was good training for how life would be later.

During this time my father began his radio ministry. He would record his services and then replay them on several stations throughout Louisiana and Mississippi. At the height of this endeavor he was on 16 radio stations in six states. He was well known for his honey dripping southern drawl. He was a fine Southern preacher from a fine Southern family.

I keep mentioning the South and Southern tradition because it plays such an important part in the lives of those who keep the traditions alive. Unfortunately, in some southern families, this gets taken a little too far. It doesn’t even matter when or where the tradition started it all has to do with image and family. Who were your people? Who are your people? Which side did they fight for in the Great War? Where’d your daddy go to school and play football? The yardstick by which you are measured starts by sizing up your family. My family took this seriously. The Hays Clan was a force to be reckoned with not only by sheer physical size but their status as Men of God made it difficult for most folks to disagree.

By the time I started school at age 4, I was amazed I had been born into this wonderful family everyone loved. My uncles were successful ministers with their own congregations. The only brother left to finish his studies for the ministry was my father’s youngest brother, Jack. Although he was the baby he was physically the largest of the six. At 6 feet 8 inches he was a giant. My earliest memories of him in my life were as a loving and affectionate giant.

Another grand Southern tradition is keeping any secrets that could hurt the family buried as deep as possible. And pity anyone who goes digging. No matter how awful, how illegal, how long they’ve been doing it, do not let the outside world know! I did not know how important this would be until later. In fact, in the next year I would learn many things that would fall into this category. But for now…

My father was now the pastor of a small church just outside of New Orleans. The parsonage was an antebellum home complete with columns and staircases and 14-foot ceilings. It was beautiful and big enough for my grandmother and Uncle Jack to move in with us. This was probably one of the best times I remember as a child. Having my grandmother living with us made every day special. Like I said, I was her namesake and she spoiled me, as well as my brother. My mom worked as a nurse. My dad was busy as a minister. My grandmother was my full-time babysitter and Uncle Jack was always there to play. It was a pretty good life for a kid.

chapter

CHAPTER TWO

One night I was in my room ready for bed because tomorrow was church day. We would have Sunday school, church, and then a delicious potluck meal supplied by all the ladies in the church. Mama coordinated everything every week. All of a sudden there was a loud banging noise coming from my parent’s room. It continued and I became frightened. Not being a shy child I went to see what it might be. In the lamplight shining from my mother’s bedside table I could see her pinned on the floor next to the wall being kicked by my father. He was in a rage and I had never seen him like this. I turned and ran screaming down the stairs for my grandmother. She and Uncle Jack had bedrooms downstairs and I ran to hers.

I was hysterical. I was scared to death and could not stop crying. I was in her lap when my father came running after me. I was so afraid of him, scared he would hurt me like he hurt mama. My grandmother interceded and made him go back upstairs. I was so traumatized by the whole thing I never went back upstairs to my room ever again. My grandmother loved that. I was a small child. I don’t know if or what might have been discussed between my father and his Mama or my father and my mother.

Of course I can’t remember all the details of being five years old but I do know that incident changed everything for everybody. I was living downstairs with my grandma and my family lived upstairs. Uncle Jack studied during the day and worked at night so sometimes grandma put me to bed in Uncle Jack’s bed since he wasn’t going to be home all night.

One of the things I can’t remember is how it started. I’m sure it began innocently enough. One of the things I do remember is being in his bed with him naked and doing things he shouldn’t have been doing. I don’t remember being upset or scared. This was Uncle Jack, someone I loved and someone who loved me. As time progressed, though, the time he spent and the things he did began to damage our relationship. It was a secret and I hated it.

In today’s world, therapists will tell you it is a definite red flag when a child begins to resist being around an adult she previously adored. I guess no one was watching. I didn’t understand why nobody could make him stop. The hardest part was constantly being made submissive to him simply by virtue of him being my elder. Children were seen and not heard, preacher’s kids especially didn’t complain, and adults were always right. So instead of being able to avoid him, ignore him or tell him to stop, I had to sit across that potluck table every week and pretend what I was going through with him was normal. To make matters worse, as his studies were finishing up for his ministry, someone made it possible for him to become the children’s minister in my father’s church. Every week, he would call all of the children to the front and give them a special message just for them. He was good at his job and children loved him.

I can’t recall much about my parent’s relationship while all this was going on except my mother seemed to be fed up. I don’t remember much affection between them or toward us. My dad was hired to minister an older congregation in Metairie, Louisiana, another suburb on the west side of New Orleans. Again, being a small child, I wasn’t privy to the conversations of the adults but we moved into a house without my grandmother and my uncle. Of course they were always around for church and all of the activities concerning the church.

Since he no longer had access to me at his whim, Uncle Jack would create situations for me to accompany him to the store or to pick someone up for a church related activity. I can remember his car, the interior, even the knob on the steering so he could drive with one hand. I hated this also but was encouraged to go with him by well-meaning relatives. Again, therapists would say one adult’s attention to one specific child, when there are many to choose from, is another red flag.

Life was so different than my first experiences and memories. My father and mother didn’t seem to get along. My uncle only had one thing on his mind besides not getting caught. My father openly raged from time to time. You never knew what would set him off. One thing one day might be fine then not the next. I know my mother ended up buying unbreakable dinner dishes and glasses because those were often his favorite ammunition.

Fortunately for me I was a smart kid and I was singled out for exceptional intelligence at a very early age. This was one of the things my father was most proud of regarding me. I could reason from early on and make logical sense in discussions with adults. It was also my undoing at the hands of my family. From the outside every effort was made to keep the dysfunction from ever seeing the light of day. I was the one who kept asking all the wrong questions.

Even with an average mind the behaviors I had witnessed were a constant contradiction. My father’s ministry was thriving. He was able to coordinate the building of a new sanctuary hall for the congregation in Metairie. My mother took on the ladies auxiliary, visiting the sick, being Cub Scout den mother for my little brother’s troop, being homeroom mother for both of us, was a housewife, being mother to me and my brother and caring for my dad. From all outward appearances it was a blessed life. But, from the inside, things were not as they seemed.

I would see my father stand in his pulpit and exhort the glories of God. He was a gifted preacher. He would ignite the congregation with How is everybody doing? His answer was always Getting better all the time, Amen. And then I would watch him as he raged against my mother for unknown sins or against my little brother for having an artist’s soul instead of being a math genius. He didn’t really have to have a reason we knew. We just knew to stay out of his way as much as possible. I know I