HELLO, GOD, IT'S ME, LINDA, Part II

Later that day when I reported what had happened to the girl and her beautiful veil, there was shock and consternation in the household.  My father said that I was to be immediately removed from Catholic school.
Even my dyed-in-the-wool Catholic mother, Mary Catherine Theresa, murmured that maybe Sister Joan "did not have a true vocation."

"She was probably forced into the convent by her crazy family," said my father, warming to his subject. "And now she is a bitter and frustrated old woman who wishes she had gotten married and had a normal life!"

I was fascinated by the turn the conversation had taken and said in a shrill voice, "Sister Joan is married to Jesus!"

Dad rolled his eyes and said, "That will do her a lot of good," giving Mom a significant look.  I had no idea what that meant, but Mom turned red and left the room.

I was removed from Catholic school and we moved to Florida.  Apparently, Dad didn't realize there were Catholics even in that distant state.  My mother, who had never been out of New York, never recovered from the move to Sarasota, in those days a sleepy little town with unspoiled beaches, lots of orange groves and the occasional bait shop.

Mom found a Catholic church and we started going to Confession, a traumatizing experience for me because I could never think of suitable sins to report and my anxiety always made me have to go to the bathroom.  There was no bathroom in the church so I had to hold it. For a very long time.  I was always in agony by the time I got into the small, dark space to confess my grievous sins (always the same two: I told a lie and I was mean to my little brothers.)  I rushed through my Act of Contrition and Penance, rushed to the car and then drove my mother crazy looking for an open gas station with facilities or a restaurant. Confession nights always ended with me racing to the ladies room at some sleazy gas station, finding it locked, going back to get the key, and then, at last, relief. 

God was never really part of the experience.

HELLO GOD, IT'S ME, LINDA - Part I

Religion was always a confusing subject for me as a child.  My mother and maternal grandmother were Irish Catholics; my father was an atheist and his mother was a Seventh Day Adventist. I should have known trouble lay ahead at my christening when the priest refused to baptize me Linda because it was not a saint's name and my Irish godfather, Clarkie Donnelly, passed out at 11 A.M. from too much alcohol. Clarkie was ignored by everyone and another gentleman stepped over his fallen friend to take his place.

Occasionally, I would spend the weekend with my grandmother, the Seventh Day Adventist, who duly took me to Sunday school on Saturday at her church where I learned Bible stories and was told not to report this to my Catholic mother.

"You see, dear," intoned Nana very seriously, "the Catholic Church is the Whore of Babylon and you must be protected."

Since I didn't know what Whore meant and I thought Babylon was a town in New Jersey, I did not feel my immortal soul was in danger. I immediately reported this news to my mother, Mary Catherine Theresa, who was outraged and immediately called her mother, who was even more outraged.  My father, the atheist, was not outraged; he thought it was funny and dared to laugh about it.  I was proud of myself for causing so much excitement in the family. Religious matters came to a head when I was briefly placed in Catholic school so I could make my First Holy Communion.

The little boys were to wear miniature suits and we little girls would wear white dresses.
On our heads we had to wear white veils we purchased from the the Church--no exceptions. 
When I brought mine home, my mother pronounced it "cheesy."

Dressed in my white
regalia, I entered the basement where we all were to assemble for the procession.  The last to enter was a very pretty child wearing a handmade
white dress and a breathtaking antique veil which I later learned had been passed down from her great-grandmother. Even I with my ignorance of fine things knew the veil was very special. We stared, wide-eyed, at her exquisite veil.   Sister Joan was furious. She crossed quickly to the child, snatched the veil from her head and threw it on the floor. I don't remember what Sister Joan said as she placed the "cheesy" church veil on the girl's head.  I remember nothing about actually receiving Communion.  I only remember the stricken, terrified face of the small girl. She was trembling and we were all too afraid to comfort her.

A HOUSE MADE OF CANDY IN THE ENCHANTED FOREST

"Now, remember, Mama thinks it's only the day after Christmas.  Papa won't know what day it is," whispered Annalisa as they came downstairs the morning after they arrived home, worn out from their arduous journey.

"When we left, there was snow everywhere; now it's Spring!  Mama will know something is amiss, don't you think?" said Arabella.

"Act innocent!  We know nothing!"

The twins entered the dining room, wide-eyed and smiling.  "Good morning, Mama and Papa, did you sleep well?" they said in unison.

"Well, I certainly did!" said their mother, "I haven't slept that well in ages.  I feel wonderful....full of energy."

"And you look so beautiful, Mama," said Arabella.  "Just radiant!  Doesn't she, Annalisa?  (who nodded vigorously)  "Papa, how are you today?"

Papa grunted something unintelligible.  As usual.

"Just so, Papa!  Well, we may be spending the entire day outdoors.  It is so lovely out today that I....."

"Now that IS strange, Girls.  I could have sworn it was snowing yesterday, but today it is positively springlike!"  The girls eyed each other but said nothing.  "I may spend the day in the garden.  What do you plan to do, my dear?" the Queen to her husband who had fallen asleep.  "Wonderful!"

"Mother, have you ever heard of a house made of candy in the woods?" said Arabella, brightly.  "We've been hearing stories and wondered....."

"NEVER, never, go there, my daughters!  There IS a house of candy and it was built by my great-aunt Evilyn--"  (The sisters rolled their eyes.)  "She built it to lure hungry little children to her peppermint lair.  She puts them in a large cage and fattens them up so she can EAT them!"

The sisters jumped; they had not expected this.  How dreadful!  They must leave at once for the forest and save those children.  They leaped from their chairs and ran to the door, exclaiming that they needed fresh air, perhaps a brisk walk.....

"Girls, don't even think of looking for that candy house!  I forbid you to go there!  Ever!" cried Mother.  "And be back for lunch."

The fairy sisters naturally flew straight to the forest to look for the candy house.  And there it was in the distance with the two children standing outside eating chocolate and looking cheerful.  The forest fairies flew to the little girl and boy and hovered in front them.

"We are the forest fairies, Annalisa and Arabella.  Who are you?"

"We are Hansel and Gretel," said the little boy.  "This candy is delicious!"

"You are in big trouble, Children, and we're here to save you!"

A SHATTERING EXPERIENCE, Part II

  

"Did you see any bruises or welts?  Any suspicious marks?" said the lady at the Abuse Hotline.

"No, but that doesn't mean there weren't any," I said, anxious for her to see these children were in trouble.  "Maybe there were bruises under their clothes."

"Did the children themselves report any abuse?"

"No, but the mother was there the whole time and she's scary.  When someone talks to them alone...  If you investigate....  And they're certainly neglected."

"What makes you say that?  Are they denied food or medical care?"

"I don't know--maybe.  The mother works all day and goes out drinking almost every night.  The little girl has to fix dinner and she's expected to clean the house.  And she has to babysit the little brother all the time and...."

"How old is the sister?" she asked.

"Twelve, almost thirteen, but...."

"Well, the girl is old enough to babysit.  I'm not sure why you're calling."

"She's mean to them.  She calls them names.  She swears at them.  She has no empathy."

"Well, she's not Mother of the Year, but if we took kids away from every bad mother out there, we wouldn't have anywhere to put them.  We don't have enough foster parents as it is.  And if we show up to investigate, she's going to know you reported it and she'll be really mad.  Is that what you want?  Look, you call here a lot; I recognize your name."  She paused and her voice became gentle.  "We can't save them all.  You know that."

"Yes, I know that."  I didn't know what else to say.  "Thank you.  I....I'll call again if I learn something more definitive.  Some kind of proof."  I hung up.

The family came two more times.  I tried everything I could think of to engage Mom, but she resisted all my efforts.  She refused parenting classes.  She had no interest in spending more time with her kids.  I had never met anyone so devoid of maternal feeling.  The little boy played happily with all the toys in my office and the girl sat quietly, staring at me and waiting to see what I might do.  I felt helpless.  Useless.

"You know, your children are so bright and sweet and beautiful and I--"

"Oh, yeah, they're good looking all right," she said bitterly.  "They look like their SOB daddy.  He's an asshole.  Look, you're supposed to be helping me and you haven't done a damn thing that does me any good.  These kids are always wanting something from me.  They're supposed to be helping me, but they're worthless.  I wish I never had them."

I felt like she had punched me in the stomach.  The little girl closed her eyes.  Her brother kept on playing, oblivious or maybe he was just used to it.

Several months later I was reading the paper and drinking my morning coffee when  I saw an article about a traffic accident and I recognized the names immediately.  The sister and her little brother were standing on the median of the busy highway, holding hands and waiting to finish crossing.  According to eyewitnesses the children suddenly stepped into oncoming traffic.  The car that hit and killed them had no time to stop.  No one was charged.

A SHATTERING EXPERIENCE - Part I

This is the second in a series of occasional posts about my career as a therapist.   The events below occurred many years ago in another town.  No names are used and identifying details have been changed.

"I want you to do something about these kids before they drive me crazy," said the mother,  a large woman with stringy, dirty blonde hair and clothes she had outgrown long ago.  The girl and her little brother said nothing; they just sat there.

"All right," I said pleasantly to Mom.  I turned to the children.  "How old are you two?"

The boy's blue eyes lit up and he smiled.  "I'm four!" he announced loudly.  "I go to school!"

"You do not go to school, Stupid; he's in day care," said Mom irritably.  "And keep it down; I got a real bad headache and you're making it worse."

"Gee, I wonder why you got a headache," said the girl, not looking at her mother.

"Shut the hell up, you little bitch," said Mom.

I jumped in my chair, shocked.  "Ma'am, no one's allowed to swear here, not even you."

Her eyes narrowed.  "You telling me what to do, Lady?"

"Yes," I said evenly.  "I'm telling you you can't use that kind of language here."  Both kids looked at me, wide-eyed, and waited to see what would happen next.  "You seem kind of stressed today, Ma'am.  Do you want to tell me about that?"

"You'd be stressed too if you had my life.  I work hard all day, loading and unloading, at that crappy Wal-Mart.  God almighty, I hate that place!  Oh, sorry.  Then at night I go out for a few drinks to relax and Little Princess over here don't approve."

"And your daughter looks after your little boy when you go out?"

"Well, yeah.  She's old enough.  She's almost thirteen."

"She must be a big help to you," I said mildly.

"The house is always a mess and she knows what time I usually get home, but dinner's never ready.  And I'm hungry after being on my feet all day."

An almost palpable resentment hung in the air.

"So, your daughter babysits your son and cooks dinner at night.  That sounds like a lot of responsibility for a twelve-year-old.  And she probably has homework to do...."

"Well, someone in the family has to work you know.  Their worthless father don't send child support so it's all up to me!  If I wanna go out and have a drink..."

"You go out almost every night," said the little girl quietly.  "I get tired too."

This galvanized her mother who shot out of her chair.  "See, this is what I mean!  This smart ass talk has got to stop.  Her brother is starting to be a smart ass too.  This is why I brought these kids here, Lady; you have got to fix them.  They need to be respectful to their elders and do as I say!"

I looked into the little girl's face and saw despair.

TO BE CONTINUED

RAT WEEK, 1960

Wesleyan College

Rosalind and I were still asleep that fateful morning when we were suddenly awakened by the sound of a drum beating.  A drum?  It was still dark outside.  What in the world......Our door was thrown open and we were shouted at by girls we didn't even know--sophomores!  GET OUT OF BED!  NOW, LOWLY RATS!  What fresh hell was this?  All was confusion as we tumbled out of bed and dressed hurriedly as the original Mean Girls continued to shout insults and commands.  We were ordered to purposely mess up our rooms and throw our clothes on the floor.  (This did not please Rosalind who nevertheless obeyed.)  We were ordered into the hall where many other hapless freshman were rubbing their eyes and looking scared.  RAT WEEK had begun!

Commanded to look as horrible as possible, we drew hair on our legs with eyebrow pencil and rubbed greasy stuff into our hair.  We wore dresses made out of brown paper that we decorated according to the wishes of our sophomore tormentors.  If pictures were taken of our disgusting appearance, it is hoped that none still exist.  The day passed in a verbal torrent of abuse from the oppressors whose every embarrassing command we were forced to obey.  But they were just getting started.

That night we freshmen huddled together in the dining room, still wearing those charming outfits. Several tables were completely empty save for glasses of tomato juice -- our blood.That accursed drum announced the coming of the sophomores, dressed completely in black.  They silently marched in and stood at their tables, then drank our "blood" in one long swallow.  We were bug-eyed.  Rat Week did not lack drama.


After dinner (for which we had no appetite) we were herded into the freshman study hall on the first floor of our dorm and ordered to wait.  We were left alone to complain and laugh nervously about our treatment.

"Oh, my God!" someone shouted and as one we all turned toward the wall of windows.  The sight that met our eyes was so terrifying that to this day my heart beats faster when I think about it.  All we could see were dark figures coming across the golf course, carrying aloft huge burning torches. As an oversensitive drama major the sheer visual horror of the scene was not lost on me.  We were marched into the dark woods behind the campus
to a clearing lit only by torchlight.  I have absolutely no memory of what was said and done that night.  The torches had done their work only too well.  When at last we were returned to our rooms, we found that our Big Sister class, the juniors, had quietly cleaned and tidied our rooms, leaving candy on the neatly made beds.  I burst into tears.

I recall very little about the next day except that it ended in the darkened gym with five cruel judges sitting far above us, wearing horrific makeup and passing sentence on us.  Then suddenly the lights came on and the dreaded sophomores started singing our class song and hugging the lowly rats.  We were taken back to the sophomore dorm and given soda and ice cream as we all laughed the relieved laughter of released prisoners.  The true purpose of the weekend had been to bring our class together as a group and God knows, it had.  And yet......

I was chosen as one of the cruel judges for Rat Week the following year.  
I was mean, sarcastic and insulting just as I was supposed to be and now, fifty four years later, I still regret it.