Hello, my name is Antoinette Dawn, drop the last name, thank you, I'm my own person and not defined by the past. I was born July 8th, 1985, nine months after my mother's twenty-first birthday, almost to the day. Heh. Whoops. I don't know how well you all know me, maybe you need some background information. Alright, I'll sum it all up. The day I came into the world, the doctors got all confused up in Sauk City, because my mom came into the hospital with my grandma, who was also eight months along with my uncle. Two pregnant ladies in one place is some scary stuff!! From there, I guess we moved around a bit, ending up in some places like Madison, Edgerton, Lodi--and yes, Scott, I feel your pain on the whole Lodi is a hell hole thing. Just...trust me. Anyway, I know my dad wasn't always with us, but he did start showing up in my memory when I was still a young'un. They didn't get married until I was ten-that's right, yay for bastard children and...yeah. Some days I really think that was a stupid move on my mom's part, but I guess I don't blame her. I mean, c'mon, who'd want to deal with a troublemaker like me all by themselves? Heh. Anyway, I moved to Barneveld at the start of sixth grade, and it's all gone downhill from there. Nah, I'm just playing. Since then, some of you have known me as a quiet girl who pretty much keeps to herself. Of course, the rest of you know that I can put even the best crazy bag lady to shame, and that I'm impossible to shut up, too! So, yepperoonis. That's it, you know me. I was born, some stuff happened, and some day I plan on dying. I'm done now!
No, no, alright, I'm back. I think I'm starting out all wrong. I think first of all, there's something I should say. You're going to hear this, and I'm gonna tell you right now, it's not as if I was ever beaten. Nothing ever happened like that. My spirit was never shattered, nothing like you'd think when you look at one of those stained glass windows in a big ol' church, broken in by a child's baseball and quiet sigh of "uh-oh."
Speaking of windows, I remember when I was little that we used to have this one.... It was so big that my mom could stand in it and still not reach the top. I would sit there and read some nights. Sometimes I would watch the lights flash across the trees as the police came to tell us my dad was in trouble again. Other nights I would snuggle with my teddy and cover my head with a pillow as the sounds of their fighting filled the air. That's what I was doing one of the nights and one of them threw a tomato into the window. The whole thing came bursting down all around me, and I remember I was so scared that I would be the one who was blamed for it. Things happened that way around our house back then. But I was safe that time, cause they never even looked at me for the rest of the night. They were too busy screaming--see, they were trying to decide which one of them had thrown the tomato. I don't think they ever figured it out, because the window never got fixed, and eventually we moved out from that house. I could have told them what I thought, but they didn't seem very inclined to listen...especially after that second tomato went flying past my face into the window. You know, I've always been told that it's important to finish what you start, and I guess that's just what they were doing-the window had looked sort of lopsided with only the top portion gone.
But anyway, that was the sort of thing that happened in my house. Things were thrown, there was screaming, and nothing glass survived. But, no one ever got hurt, at least like that. They might come close, but remember...it wouldn't be civilized for anything like that to happen in our family.
That's why it was so hard to write this essay, because I heard all of your stories, and thought, "what did I go through, compared to you? What right do I have to come up here?" But this is where I stand now-probably more because of the grade than any other reason-but still willing to let you know about my life. Some people have said that what I went through was just as bad...I'll have to let you guys decide. You see, instead of coming home dreading the fact that I would have to suffer through another night with him, I was still able to come home with some hope. Life was complete uncertainty, and the total randomness of it all was what made it really painful. Instead of knowing with certainty that he would come home in a rage, today he might be nice. Today I might see him come home and say, "hello, daddy," and he would answer me sweetly, "hello, chipmunk, I missed you!" But the next day.... I might say the same thing, but that sweet man who was my father would be gone, replaced by someone I never knew. Hopes crash down so much harder when you don't know what to expect. One day he might tell me to do one thing, and the next day, this might be completely wrong. Things changed nightly. I spent my life as a nervous wreck, any footholds I had about as stable as a mental crackpot let loose in a candy store But I suppose you'll have that, some days. I guess maybe it was that nervousness, that unwillingness to relax, just in case, that left me with so few friends when I was young. I remember some of them called me Jackrabbit because I was always so jumpy. Any loud noises or unexpected touch sent me over the edge...some of you know I still have some problems with that, but, trust me, nothing nearly so bad as it used to be. Back then, some days the only way I could make myself sit still depended upon my constant fear of error. It wasn't all that bad, really. I mean, because of these fears, I was never in trouble at school. In fact, I believe the only times I was officially grounded concerned a disagreement over...let's see, what was it...? Oh, yes. A tuna fish sandwich and leaving a window open upstairs. God, I was a holy terror, wasn't I? I slept lightly, if at all, because it was all but impossible to do so at my house. Amazingly, I kept my grades extremely high-of course, only with good motivation. I remember crying for three days straight when I brought home a ninety five percent in fifth grade. It was an advanced class, with less than ten kids out of a class of closer to two hundred. Only one student did as well as me, and the rest got closer to C's. I was told it was a pitiful excuse for failure.
Of course, I was fed all sorts of lines like this when I was little, all of which could be bent according to current needs. Some days I was told, "honor your father and mother." Why? It was a commandment. Do it. But don't over do it. Either way get you in trouble. Oh yeah, and that last part can usually be ignored. I had heard in church that there was a part about "loving your wife and child" somewhere too, but I guess that was edited from our Bible. Well, from the one I read. Maybe it was just in the others. For some reason, we kept a lot of them, as if the sheer quantity of holy items would cancel out all the bad things in our house. Not, of course, as if any of that was my father's fault. Of course not. It was my mother, for she committed the deadly sin of not going to church. She was one of the most truly religious people I know--not in action, or in words, but right here, where it really counts--but I don't believe I've ever seen her go formally go to church. Naughty, naughty. For years I was told everything wrong in the house was because of her lack of faith. Of course, it would have nothing to do with the constant alcohol and drug abuse. Noooo.
Anyway, there were more rules than just that. "Keep holy the Sabbath day," was a good one, for example. Of course I did this, for we had an image to upkeep, didn't we? And in all those years, I missed only two days of church. I remember them well, for during the next week he made my life a living hell. Each time, he screamed at me, even though I was really sick. How dare I forsake my God in this way? I would go to hell for this! *Gasp!* What would the neighbors think? ...Guess which one of these was the most important to him. That's right--my eternally damned soul and desertion of God were not of any concern. Those damn neighbors had to see what we wanted them to see, now didn't they? I'm not sure what they actually did see...but I do I know the priest almost wanted to cry when he saw me forced before him to confess my sins of not going to church. Bad me!
Ah, yes, confession was another one of those things that was required in our family. It kept the body and soul pure, my father said, because obviously we were not worthy as it was. So, every month, we drove up to church to beg the priest for forgiveness for our sins. I remember each and every time, cause I was coached on the way there. "Now, remember, you must apologize for everything wrong you've done this month, especially all the times that you have not obeyed me, or didn't listen because you were too busy trying to think for yourself. You know I know best." Sometimes he would add the other one, "and also remember to say your prayers twice as many times as he tells you. He's trying to be nice, but you don't deserve that. Too bad he doesn't see what you are really like. Lazy brat."
There were other things like that, too. We couldn't eat an hour before mass, because it would make us unworthy of the heavenly host. He, however, was okay to eat breakfast before we left. It was different, he assured us. We even gave up eating meat on Fridays. Every single Friday since I can remember, it's been the same old thing. By the time I was five, I hated the stuff. I would even get sick from just the stench of it-but boy, did I feel holy! But who could complain? If I did, I was sharply reminded of how my life was awash with blessings for my faith, even as meager as my faith was. I was always loved...at least while in public view. I never went hungry...except when the alcohol seemed more important than groceries. Want a good temptation never to drink, you guys? Try going without food for a week while watching your father host a party with a bunch of his cracked out friends running all over the house and chasing you. Fun. I think the best joke he ever told me was the one about "at least we still have our family together." He always did have a strange sense of humor. Of course, that one had an exception, too.
I couldn't smell fish cooking. That's how I knew it was bad. It was a Friday, and the sickening odor of fish was not in the air. Although it positively reeked of suckitude, it was at least familiar to me.
"Where's Mom?" I asked timidly. I received no answer, and I truly opened my eyes and saw. All around were the signs of emptiness. I sighed. Finally.
"She left us," he confirmed. It was as simple as that. He never looked up from the TV, static flickering across the screen. How dare I disturb him?
"Oh." I didn't say anything more. What else was there? It was a fact now. Get over it. He walked into the other room, and the silence engulfed the house. I remember walking upstairs and listening to the ringing in my ears. The sound of absence swallowed my tears, the only bitter food I could keep down. ...Truthfully, they tasted almost as bad as the fish.
An hour later, he came to give me some comfort. "I'm sorry," he whispered. I looked up in surprise, for this was unprecedented. "But where's supper?" Ouch. The time of mourning was officially over. See what I mean about getting my hopes up?
I didn't bother responding. I was to take her place. How sweet. My anger was muffled by the clash of pots and pans as I heated up my tears for the meal. I managed to remain calm, but inside my questions raged, unspoken and unanswered. This was what I was born into, and so I followed it, without complaint. To complain was to go against the first rule, to love God. He could hear those things, you know. We mustn't let him know we were unhappy, because that would reflect badly on them, and it was my duty to honor them, wasn't it? Besides, that's why it was called faith. I must learn to accept it. Mom had. Obviously, as he had told me for so many years, I was worthy of nothing more.
My aunt--on my mother's side, of course--showed up later that night. She shrieked at him for almost an hour, saying the words that I could not yet begin to think.
"Come here, hon, you're staying with me for a while," she told me as we climbed into her truck. So I listened. I doubt if my father comprehended his mistake at that time. In teaching me complete obedience, he failed at the lesson of loyalty only to himself. Oops.
I loved that time I had with my aunt, for she truly cared about me, and wasn't afraid to show it. Instead of covering me with curses and names, she smothered me with hugs and kisses. For the first time, I felt a true warmth in my life.
However, during that time, she also raged about my father, cursing his name and futilely calling the wrath of the skies upon his head. Well, perhaps not so futilely, because when we returned to pick up some of my things, we found something horrible had happened. It seems that he, too, was trying to find some measure of warmth, and found it...in a fire which almost killed him, and sent him to the hospital for weeks.
But by this time, although that time with my aunt had helped tremendously, I was no longer able to really care about his pain. Yes, of course I was upset about the accident, but really.... I felt like all I could do was to pretend I was sad, to just go through the motions and nothing more. I just sat back and watched, thinking silently of other days.
This continued, day in and day out, for several weeks as I was shifted from relative to relative, friend to friend. All of them expected either a face swollen with tears or a carefully forced cheerfulness, but I don't think any of them were prepared for the calm compliance they received. All of them wondered at this strange behavior, but none of them knew quite what to do with me. So, I was simply passed around and round, until one week when I ended up at my other aunt's house--this one my father's sister.
Somehow it was different this time than everywhere else. It was something odd, vastly indescribable and yet almost tangible, in one of those "I have to piss so bad I can taste it!" tangible sort of ways. You know the kind. I began to peer from the corner of my mind I had been hiding in and watch, to look behind the fairy tale happy family to what I knew was closer to the truth. It didn't take nearly so long as it might seem, for my aunt seemed to dangle the problem right beneath her words.
"I've got things to do-the church has that meeting tonight, you know." She was always talking about "that meeting up at the church." Usually it meant that she was going to drive around chain smoking until she was ready to pose for her neighbors, spend half an hour at the meeting making sure she was seen by everyone helping out, then going the rest of the night resting from her performance. Whatever worked. "Feel free to entertain yourself-just watch out for that lump on the couch!" This last statement was said with a tittering laugh--you know, the kind rich annoying ladies use when they're uneasy but don't want to show it? The only thing that betrayed her were her eyes-they were tired and flashed a glare across the room when they thought I wasn't paying attention.
As soon as she had left, I walked over to the lump. As if some sort of button had been pushed, legs emerged and it unfolded, becoming my cousin, Lori.
"What's wrong?" I asked softly, my voice harsh from keeping quiet all these days. I wouldn't have said a thing, but there were more important things in life, like those glittering tears spilling down her face.
"Everything," she answered abruptly. The dark circles beneath her eyes gave her a blunt honesty which was stunning in its fierceness.
I tilted my head to the side, curious.
"I was..." She stopped, unable to find a point at which to start. "I...I found out everything was a lie."
A half smile began to worm its way onto my face, but it was soon torn away by the silence. She meant it.
"The other night, I was out at the club, having a good time. My buddies where there, my girlfriend..." She stopped and laughed shortly, glancing away. "Oh yeah, by the way, I'm gay." Her eyes are what really got me when she looked back--they were sheepish, almost broken, not ashamed of this admission, but unable to prepare what I might say about this. You see, our family was not kind on this matter, and would not tolerate it. They believed that any such person's soul was doomed, and no one wanted to be associated with such a dreadful person. I didn't know what I should do-to continue to talking to her at all would be against everything they had taught me. In the end, I couldn't speak...all I could do was to squeeze her hand softly and smile. There was no way I could turn away from someone I cared for and who was in so much pain, simply because they had made a choice different from the norm.
I must have helped in some way, because she cleared her throat and continued.
"Anyway...we were all there, dancing, carefree. I kissed her goodnight. She even warned me to be careful, too, and I laughed." A bitter sob broke from her lips, but she continued. "Nothing could happen to me. I was young, I was free, and I was unbelievably stupid. As I was walking home, someone came up behind me, they held me down, and...he..." She couldn't say it, and I held her close, unable to speak, yet offering what meager comfort I could. My heart ached for her, for her tale was not close to finished.
"When I got home, I thought, at least the worst is over. If nothing else, I can look back and say, nothing can get as bad again as that. But...when I told them...my mother.... It just sort of came out.... You know, she didn't know that I was...me and my girlfriend...."
I nodded in understanding. Obviously, I hadn't known until now, either, and I could see why she might have wanted to keep it a secret. I could only imagine my aunt's shock, in trying to raise a proper child, coming home one night to hear, "mom, I was raped. By the way, I'm a lesbian, too." It must have been a double blow to her, for such things, "just wouldn't do!" Love thy neighbor only applied to the people who were worthy of her respect.
"So...she found out, and...she flipped. She told me that...it was no wonder what had happened, because of what I had done. The others... I was in a Bible class, you know, and they said...it was punishment for my actions, that I deserved it. They all abandoned me. Someone even said that the pain would help me finally think straight." Her eyes glinted, and she laughed, a rough sound with no humor left in it. "You know, maybe she's right in a way, too. I mean, now that no one'll talk to me, I do have a lot of time to consider it all. And do you want to know what I decided?" She didn't wait for a reply. "It's lies. Everything they've told me. Think about it--not with what they've told you, but just think. I made a choice in my life, one that changed everything, but was also so simple. And because it was not exactly according to their rules, they don't even see me when I need them the most. All those bullshit lines about helping those in need, out the door. Hypocrites. Absolute fucking hypocrites. They even told me I should go confess to the priest, to beg my forgiveness."
I almost laughed at that point. I could most definitely understand the extreme frustration in that.
"Even if I did need to beg forgiveness, I most certainly wouldn't talk to that man. I'm fairly certain an all powerful God has no need for a middle man, and if I wasn't good enough to talk to him directly, I'm also sure that he wouldn't teach all that Christian love bullshit, too!"
She went on, from there, ranting against every belief I had once know without doubt. It really doesn't matter exactly what was said--what's important came next. When she was done, she sighed, her anger spent, and grew quiet. "Well now, I've said my piece. Now tell me...am I crazy?"
I sat back a bit, questioning. "I think-"
"No, no!" she shouted, upset. "You're not thinking right now, you're reacting, accepting what you've been told. I want you to stop, and consider what I've said. I want you to think, and to tell me exactly what's on your mind. I don't care your opinion, I just want to know it, without question."
That...was a surprise. Never in my life had I been told to do such a thing. People were always too busy to ask for that. They wanted an answer immediately, one they could argue against and throw away if it didn't suit them. Over the years, I had developed a habit of saying exactly what they wanted, without thinking, because that's what would be chosen in the end, now, wasn't it? It had been in my life. But what she was saying was pushing all that away...I had my own opinion, and I should tell it.
I won't tell you what I finally decided about it all, either--it'd take far too long. You could probably ask, but I can't guarantee I'd answer. That's another thing she gave me-not only the freedom to think my own opinion, but also to keep silent about it if I wish. The true power came in having that choice, not being forced one way or another. But, one thing I will tell you is that that conversation did make me think--it stretched my mind in directions I never knew existed before. I was now free to think for myself.
And what came of this all? What lasting impression was made to reach far into my lifetime? Heh. None. Not at first, at least. And, in the end, nothing that was truly that big. But it's the little things in life that make the difference, wouldn't you agree?
See, I remember that first day back with my father, too. He and another relative had come to pick me up from my aunt's, and Lori was saying goodbye. She gave me a hug, whispered softly for me to, "think carefully, but not get confuzzled," and sent me down to greet my father. I hadn't seen him in months, and things seemed...different. He seemed more calm, stable. My relatives had informed me that he had worked through his addictions, and was going through counseling with my mom. Never again, I was assured. He was a different man. Maybe so. Anyway, I could tell it was Sunday, because he was wearing his best clothes-that dorky tie and suit, fading gray. Some things never change. It was sort of funny, because he never even said hello, just sat there with this silly grin on his face, a certain sign he was upset. You see, I had come out in blue jeans in a T-shirt, on a Sunday, and we all know how concerned God is with appearances. Whoa boy!
"It's time to go to church," he informed me, still with that strange grin that promised he'd talk to me later. "We should go. What do you think?"
It was as if those words set off something inside, and I almost had to laugh. I don't believe he had ever asked such a question, even in rhetoric, and his timing on this just seemed too good to be true.
I think he was worried when he saw that grin flash across my face. Maybe he had reason to...in fact, I know he did. He had years of silence on my part between us to fill, and I was determined to make up for it now.
"Well, if you want to know what I think..."
I didn't give him a chance to decide if he wanted to know or not. On that day, I started to tell him--and the rest of the world--exactly what I thought.
And I haven't shut up yet.
Antoinette Dawn
