To Daddy, With Love

My previous blog post was supposed to be a tribute to dads, which I thought would be appropriate since I'd written one to mothers around Mother's Day. But when I sat down with my laptop to write it, I couldn't bring myself to type the words--it was too close to Father's Day, always a difficult time for me ever since my dad was killed in a car accident years ago.

Although my mother is still very much alive, it feels to me like she's dead too, like she died when I was a child. Still, it wasn't hard for me to write the blog about mothers (This is For You), even though I've never really had one, not for any length of time. When I began writing, I just thought of all the sweet, nurturing mothers I've known in my lifetime, and what my friends have told me about the way these special women have made them feel. I thought of my own mother-in-law, of how much she means to me, and the words came easy.

Now that Father's Day has come and gone, and the deep ache for the loss of my dad has softened, I have something to say.


For those of you who haven't read my book, Call Me Tuesday, a story based on the true events of my childhood, I was abused and tortured horribly by my mother, and although my dad was aware of most of what was going on, he did little to stop it.


In the wake of the publication of the book, I have been accused, many times, of being blind when it comes to my dad. Kirkus stated in their review of the book, "... hard to take is her father’s passiveness, partly because Byrne is too easy on him. He tells Tuesday that intervention “could break up the family...”  http://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/leigh-byrne/call-me-tuesday/#review .


And what they say is true. But Daddy tried to do something early on; there were fights--serious ones.  He said he kept hoping Mama would stop on her own. He had faith that she was a good person because she had been when he married her, and he was so insanely in love with her. Then, before he knew it, things had gotten out of hand. He was sure if social services intervened, all of us, kids would have been placed in different foster homes. Truth be told, he was probably right. That's what he said, anyway. And I guess I bought it because I wanted to.


He should have turned her in, you say. But don't be so quick to judge. Take a look at your own spouse, your son, or daughter, brother or sister. How easy would it be to send him or her to prison, or to a mental facility for abusing only one child? What if the other children involved were begging you not to take their mama away? If you thought you could possibly stop the abuse on your own, wouldn't you at least try before you tore a family apart?


I know my father was a weak man where my mother was concerned. But because he was a wonderful man in so many other ways, it's  hard to hate him. Believe me, I, of all people have reason to and I've tried, but I can't. I think it's partly because he owned up to what he did--or didn't do--apologized and tried to make things right between us. And yes, I forgave him because he asked me to, and because he's my daddy, and because somehow, in the midst of all the madness that was my childhood, he was one of the few people who made me feel loved.

Nowhere to Hide

Up until my book, Call Me Tuesday, was released earlier this year, only my family and a few close friends knew about my childhood abuse. For years, I went to great lengths to keep it hidden because I feared people might think I was mentally ill, somehow damaged by the horrific abuse I had suffered.

Now, because I made the decision to publish my story, and openly admit the book is based on my own true-life experience, hundreds of people--most of which I've never even met--know I once had to dig around in the trash for food, and drink from the dog's water. That I had to defecate on a piece of notebook paper because I was locked in a room and had nowhere else to go. They know I've had my face smeared in vomit, was made to eat disgusting food and do degrading things.

Don't get me wrong, I am thankful so many people have shown an interest in my story, and the feedback has been both rewarding and therapeutic. But the last thing I want is to be defined by my abuse, nor do I want to be labeled a victim. And anyone who knows me can tell you that I am a proud and private person.  

Why then, you ask, would a proud and private person reveal such humiliating truths in a book? 

More than anything else, I love to write. From the first essay paper read aloud by my teacher in grade school, to the recent publication of my  book, writing has been my strength, my go-to in times of stress. It's the one thing I have always been able to do well. The only thing I've ever done that made my daddy proud.

I was taught in school to write about what I know. My childhood abuse left me with this really bizarre, yet compelling story to tell, so it kind of made sense to make it my first serious endeavor as a published author.

But, I naively thought I could hide behind the word "fiction." Change all the names, locals, time lines, some of the details of what happened, give the story a happy ending, and no one would ever know it was really about me. And I probably wouldn't have even included the words, "based on a true story" in the description, if my best friend (I'm convinced she's also my guardian angel) of over 20 years had not implored me to reconsider. She said that without the element of truth, the story would not have the power to help as many people. And that's the point of the book, right? To purge my soul of poison, and to help others.

Well, partly.

Like I said before, I love to write, and I just so happened to have had this strange and unfortunate childhood that I thought might make for pretty good reading. Sure, the writing of it was cathartic. Sure, the book might possibly help some people, But, in all honesty, I wrote it because that's what writer's do. They write.

When I had finished the book, which is slightly fictionalized, I realized the pain in the words was so raw, so frighteningly real, it was obvious that I, the author, had been the one who had endured it, and there was no use trying to hide from the truth any longer. There is nowhere to hide. 

The Kirkus Review of Call Me Tuesday pretty much says it all:
"Byrne conveys a horrifying story inspired by true-life experience, according to the jacket copy, and though it’s well-written, it’s also very hard to take because the prose so vividly and evocatively portrays suffering."

Kleen-N-Kleen = Ch-ching!

I open my front door and I am greeted by a giant toothy smile with a small man connected to it—a Bob Marly-esque man dressed in a crumpled white button-down and khaki shorts.

I am thinking of how much I love reggae music, when I see, on the porch at his feet, an industrial spray bottle, half-full of a yellowish liquid.

I give an internal eye-roll. Oh my God he’s going to try to sell me something! Is it too late to shut the door?

“Good afternoon, Miss. Is this a bad time?”

Did he just call me Miss? I like to be called Miss. Much better than Ma’am—sounds younger. “Oh, no, no it’s okay,” I assure him, poking my head out the door.

Extending a weathered hand, the man says, “My name is John.”

John? I was hoping for Ziggy, or something more artsy or island-y. I take his hand. “Hi John. What can I do for you?”

“Just a minute of your time, please.”

Is that a Jamaican accent? I love a Jamaican accent. “Okay, John, shoot,” I say. “But make it quick, I have to cook dinner.”

“Quick, yes, quick. Tell me, Miss, do you have kids?”

“Yes, our youngest is off to college this fall.”

“No!” he leans back, eying me. “You can’t possibly be old enough to have a kid in college!”

Giggling, I step out onto the porch and shut the door behind me. It’s a step that will cost me. I don’t know it yet, but specifically, it will cost me $42.79.

Without wasting any time, John picks up the spray bottle, unscrews the nozzle and runs his tongue across the length of the nozzle tube, lapping up the yellow liquid. “Before I show you what this amazing cleaning product does, I wanted to prove to you that it’s non-toxic.”

I am grossed out. I am intrigued. I am skeptical. If it’s non-toxic, it can’t possibly clean anything...

As if he had read my thoughts, he puts the nozzle back on the bottle and pulls a white washcloth from a well-worn backpack, and then a Sharpie from his shirt pocket. He hands me the Sharpie, and somehow I know, without him having to tell me, that he wants me to mark on the washcloth. So I do. And as expected, he sprays the cloth with the cleaner. Almost immediately the mark begins to disappear.

I am not impressed. Spot Shot—$2.99 at the Wal-mart—will do that.

Sensing that he’s loosing me, he quickly begins cleaning my storm door with the liquid and the washcloth.

Okay, I think, you can’t use Spot Shot on glass. That’s why there’s Windex. But I allow him to continue, because he thinks I look young, and because I have a weakness for a Jamaican accent, and because he’s blocking my way back into the house.

When he has polished the door to a sparkling shine he runs the palm of his hand down the center. “No smudge!” he says. “Now you try. My hands are dry, but a lady like you usually wears lotion.”

I try to smear the glass with my fingers, but it remains clean. I think of my Jack Russell’s wet nose against the back sliding glass door. I could use some of this stuff.

I am now trying to decide whether I want to pay by check or charge.

But John isn’t taking any chances. He produces a wire brush from his backpack, drops to his knees and proceeds to clean a large rock (yes a rock) beside my porch. When he has finished the rock appears to have been bleached. He moves on to another one.

“No, John, stop! You don’t have to clean anymore rocks. I’m sold.”

“Thank you Miss. Thank you very much. What is it that made you decide to buy?”

“Actually I think you had me at Miss.”

This is For You

This is for you, the sentimental one who cluttered your refrigerator door with drawings of smiling suns and stick people with oversized heads. You, who glorified the dandelions we picked with a crystal vase. If we were to look inside your jewelry box, we would not find flashy diamonds, but a dozen or so little teeth wrapped in tissue paper. And in that “secret drawer” that we were never allowed to open, there are no expensive clothes, only locks of our hair and every Mother’s day card we ever made for you, preserved with care.  

This is for you, the selfless, who bought us silly toys at the grocery store when you knew they would most likely be forgotten the next day, and most surely go unappreciated. You, who went without second helpings at supper so we could have thirds.

This is for you, the overprotective, who made us wear life preservers in the kiddy pool and jackets in May. So what if we were the only teenager on the block who had to mow the lawn in catcher’s equipment and steel-toed boots?

This is for you, the tenderhearted one who, with tears rolling down your face, switched us all the way home when you caught us playing in the street. The one who gave us quarters for the gumball machine, and still slips us a twenty when things get tight.

It’s a little late, as usual, but you know us, we would forget our heads if they weren’t tied on, happy Mother’s Day, and we love you for all you have done, and all that you continue to do.

World Peace

The great thing about having a blog is that when you feel bitchy about something you can always write about it, and maybe one or two people might read it and say, “yeah, that pisses me off too!” Or not. But it doesn’t matter anyway, because the point of the bitchy blog—or as I like to call it, “the blitch”—is to vent. And we all need to vent; Dr. Phil (or maybe it’s Dr. Oz) says it’s good for your mental and emotional health. So, in the interest of my sanity, and in the spirit of doctors Phil and Oz, here’s my “blitch.”

Back in September of last year, NBA player, Ron Artest of the LA Lakers changed his name to Metta World Peace. His new first name, the Buddaist word Metta, means "loving kindness and friendliness towards others." His new last name is, well, self-explanatory. Mr. Artest...excuse me...Mr. World Peace, (or maybe it's Mr. Peace, and his middle name is World) according to his own words, changed his name "to inspire and bring youth together all around the world."

Now isn’t that special.

The name change sounds like a lovely gesture by an obviously lovely man who, out of the goodness of his lovely heart, is taking advantage of his privileged position as an NBA star to influence millions of young people around the world.

HA! 

For those of you who aren’t already familiar with the professional athlete formerly known as Ron Artest, allow me to give you a brief history of his humanitarian nature, his “loving kindness and friendliness.” I’ll start with his most recent gesture of brotherly love toward one of his fellow ball players. It happened Sunday before last, during a game with the Oklahoma City Thunder. After an admittedly impressive fast-break dunk over Durant and Serge Ibaka, World Peace came down growling viciously, pounding his chest with one fist and threw a hard elbow to the head of Thunder guard, James Harden.

It was an accident, according to World Peace. An accident forceful enough to cause Harden to have a concussion. WP later claimed he was merely celebrating the dunk and got "real emotional and excited.” But when the officials reviewed the tape and realized it was clearly no accident they ejected him on the spot. Last Tuesday the NBA announced that he is suspended for seven games. Looks like he’s probably going to miss the first round of the playoffs. Pity. In this humble “blitcher’s” opinion he got off easy, given his history of violence.

The elbow incident was only the finale to World Peace’s long list of aggressive behavior. During the 2011 playoffs, in a game against the Mavericks, he slung a forearm and struck J.J. Barea in the face. Before he joined the Lakers he had been suspended 12 times in his 13 year career. In 2007 he was arrested on a domestic violence charge. In 2004, back when he played for the Indiana Pacers, he leaped into the stands and attacked one of the fans. Now that was classy. There’s more, a lot more, I could go on and on, but I think you get the point.

Being the huge NBA fan that I am, I can appreciate World Peace’s talent and passion for the game. And in his defense I believe he tried to clean up his image by changing his name. He appeared on Dancing With the Stars and the cast of the show thought he was a really nice guy. Last April he was presented with the NBA’s J. Walter Kennedy Citizenship Award for his work on mental health awareness. He tried, God love him.

Every time a commentator says his name “...and World Peace goes up for the block...” I bust out laughing. As I write this I can’t even type it and keep a straight face. But that’s just me; I’m a sucker for irony. And maybe I have a warped sense of humor because whenever I see him a vision of Miss Piggy pops into my head. She’s got on her wig and false eyelashes and lipstick, but it doesn’t change the fact that underneath all the glam she’s still a pig. And she always will be a pig.

Be Aware

Is there a certain smell that takes you back to a place and time in your childhood? Does the scent of honeysuckle remind you of carefree summer days playing outdoors with your friends? Or when you walk into a Cracker Barrel restaurant and smell pancakes cooking on the griddle, do you instantly find yourself sitting sleepy-eyed in your mom’s kitchen waiting for her to place a stack of buttery hot cakes on the table in front of you?

For me, some of the smells that trigger childhood memories are sour milk, Jungle Gardenia perfume, and Southern Comfort liqueur. When I sniff a carton of milk before I put it in my morning cereal, if by chance it has gone bad, I am suddenly forcing down clabbered chunks while my mother stands over me with a threatening fist. If I pass an elderly lady who’s wearing the same perfume Mama used to wear, or sit beside someone in a bar who’s drinking her favorite liqueur, out of nowhere I can see her face above me—all flush and gnarled in anger—as she’s forcing my head under scalding bathwater.

As much as I would love to post something funny on my blog this week, I just can’t, because  it’s Child Abuse Prevention Month. So since it’s my last post for April, and I’m an abuse survivor and the author of a book based on my story, I figured it’s as good a time as any to take off my mask of humor and do my part, however small, to bring about awareness of this armpit of all crimes.

Mind you, I’m no authority on child abuse. I only know someone personally who was abused as a child. But I am an authority on her. Her abuse was severe. Not the worst—victims of the worst abuse probably are not around to tell about it—but it was bad. On a scale of one to ten maybe a seven or an eight. I believe that gives me an insight that others may not have, and puts me in the unique position to try to help a few people. So here goes.

Once, after reading my book, someone said to me, “That’s horrible, but it was a long time ago. Stuff like that doesn’t happen anymore.”

Oh yes it does. Every ten seconds a case of child abuse is reported, which adds up to approximately three million a year. And that’s only the cases that are reported. Wonder how many go unreported, like mine.

We are doing a good job of reporting suspected abuse—better than ever before—but we have to try harder, look closer. You can forget about the abused kids telling on their abusers. It’s not going to happen. I can remember my mother and father saying that I should never tell anyone what goes on in the privacy of our home; they said it would rip our family apart. As  horrible as my life was I was still afraid to tell, afraid of what might happen to my brothers and me if I did, of what might happen to our family. You see, what an adult says translates differently in a child’s mind. For instance when my mother told me I was disgusting, ugly or dirty, what I thought was, “I am a bad seed. I deserve to be punished. I don’t deserve anything good to happen to me.”

So, it’s up to us adults to report suspected abuse. I know it’s difficult. I know you don’t want to be all up in somebody’s family business. But I’m telling you it’s the only way.

Maybe I can help. Because I was once abused I know some behavioral signs to watch for when you suspect something is not right. Some signs beyond the obvious.

In a child:

*Flinching at sudden movements

*Always looking around as if waiting for something bad to happen

*Overly compliant, passive or withdrawn

*He or she does not want to go home

*He or she rarely looks at or touches a parent

What to watch for in an adult:

*A parent shows little concern for their child’s welfare

*Blames the child for problems in school or at home

*Makes comments that the child is bad, worthless or burdensome

*Rarely looks at or touches the child

I know this is Child Abuse Prevention Month, but I feel it’s important, since there’s not a month set aside for adults who were once abused, to point out a couple of things that might help those of you who are in a relationship with an abuse survivor to better understand his or her behavior.

Our biggest struggle is with TRUST, and  that’s understandable for obvious reasons. Most of us don’t feel entirely safe in any relationship with another human being. We are always waiting for the big bad to happen. We enter into even the most casual of friendships on our own terms. We may keep you at arm’s length. Many of us prefer to be alone because it’s safer, less complicated. Some of us have numbed our feelings as a way of protecting ourselves. All of us are terrified of being hurt or betrayed.

We are not freaks, but we are damaged goods. We struggle daily with confidence. Speaking for myself, I often have mini panic attacks, usually when I’m attempting to prove myself worthy, like interviewing for a job. And even when I’m doing something as insignificant as rolling a bowling ball down the lane on league night, I sometimes hear a voice in my head telling me how worthless I am, and that I’m going to mess this up. Then I usually do. Mess it up. Gutter ball.

Some of us don’t talk about what happened when we were children because that’s what we’ve been taught to do, what’s been drilled into our heads. And because we are ashamed of it. From my own experience, I’ve found that functioning in society is more difficult once people know. Now that my book is out and my co-workers have read it, I’m ashamed to face them day after day, because I know that they know about all the degrading things I was made to do as a child, all the humiliation I suffered. Now they look at me differently. I get a lot of sympathetic stares. I hear whispers. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I sense that some of them are a bit afraid of me, that they wonder about my mental well-being.

But my biggest challenge and deepest fear concerning my abusive past is that I have yet to remember the worst of it. And I have valid reason to be afraid. Before my father was killed in a car accident, he told my best friend there were horrible parts of my childhood that I have blocked out, and he prayed I would never remember. The idea that something unthinkable is lurking in my subconscious, something my mind is afraid to acknowledge, something even worse than the hell I went through, terrifies me  to the bone.

In honor of Child Abuse Prevention Month, for a limited time the price of the e-book edition of “Call Me Tuesday” will be 99 cents.

Justice for Scarlett

Just because I’m female it doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate good-looking people of both sexes. The first time I saw Scarlett, a woman who works with me, I knew I was in the presence of a truly hot specimen. Absolutely gorgeous. She’s a petite, slip of a lady, but built like a brick shit-house. Blackish-brown hair, sparkling eyes, creamy skin, a button nose, knockout smile—straight up stunning.

Before I go any further, I should probably point out that her name isn’t really Scarlett. But I’m going to call her that because I think Scarlett fits her better than her real name. And because I like that name. It’s the name of one of the most colorful characters in American literature. And I’ve always secretly wished my parents had named me Scarlett. I’m convinced if they had it would have destined me for a more exciting life.

Yes, Scarlett is indeed beautiful, but be that as it may, men don’t stop in their tracks when she walks by; in fact, they hardly even notice her at all. They did at one time. At one time they followed her around sniffing her trail like a dog sniffs out a bitch in heat. They would’ve drunk her bathwater to have had a chance with her. But these days men don’t look at Scarlett in that way because now she’s a woman “of a certain age,” and women “of a certain age” are largely ignored in our society, even by the men “of a certain age.” Deemed no longer desirable.

So one day, while I was working at my job on the dock at Macy’s, I got to thinking about Scarlett and her unappreciated beauty. I looked down the processing line through the whipping sheets of plastic, through the empty cardboard boxes flying through the air en route to the baler, all the way down to the tail of the dragon where Scarlett was busy ink-tagging a stack of clothes. There she was working away with her signature red lipstick and perfectly coiffed hair, shimmering like a gem in the midst of all the dust and chaos. Looking at her, I wondered what life would be like if our concept of beauty were to become completely reversed. What if the older you got the more desirable you became? And then it occurred to me that while this was not likely to transpire in my lifetime, let alone Scarlett’s, there was a way I could make it happen—make Scarlett beautiful and desirable once again. I could write it and then it would be, at least in a story. That’s the wonder of fiction.

When I got home, I grabbed my laptop and began typing. And when I’d finished I had given birth to this:

The Evolution of Beauty

Molly twists the sprigs of hair sprouting from the top of her otherwise bald head, as she studies the restaurant menu. She always keeps her head shaved clean, except for the few hairs on top, which she dyes a dingy gray, as a style statement. She also shaves her eyebrows so that the only hair on her face is the soft, dark shadow above her upper lip. “I’ll start out with fried mozzarella sticks,” she says to the waitress without looking up. “Then I’ll have the baby back ribs—the full rack, please—and a loaded baked potato with extra butter. And for my sides, I’ll have the mac and cheese, and the cinnamon apples. And go ahead and bring me another Heineken,” she says, finishing off the one in front of her with a loud belch. “This baby’s history.” 

Kayla, seated across from Molly at the table, closes her menu. “Sounds perfect;” she says. “I’ll have the very same, right down to the beer, except I want extra sour cream and butter with my potato. Oh, and could you bring us some more rolls?”

Molly picks up the half-empty bucket of peanuts, and shakes them. “And more of these too, please,” she says. “It’s tough staying a perfect size twenty.” She grabs the last roll from the basket and begins icing it with honey butter, eying Kayla. “Did you just have your roots grayed?”

Kayla nods, proudly. “And you plucked your eyelashes!”

Molly grins, and then takes a bite of her roll. “Okay, enough chit-chat. What’s this big thing you wanted to tell me?”

Kayla leans in. “Guess who I saw at the mall last night?”

“I don’t know. Who?”

“Guess.”

“Kaaay-laaa, just tell me already!”

“Brad, I saw Brad.”

“Brad, my ex, Brad?”

“Yep, that’s the one. And he was with someone.”

Molly’s bald eyes grow wide with interest. “Shut up!” she says, her cheeks bulging with bread. She swallows hard. “Well, what did she look like?”

“Hmmm, let me see if I can remember…” Kayla says, as she cracks open a peanut and pops it into her mouth.

“C’mon, Kay, spill! Was she thinner than me? Younger? Taller?”

“Yes. Yes. And, yes.”

Molly smiles. Her teeth are as yellow and sparse as a partially-eaten ear of corn. “Lying bitch!” she says. “You’re just trying to make me feel good.”

“I’m not lying, Molly, she’s really a dog! Long, blond hair, big lips, legs a mile long and she’s at least five years younger than you. I’m telling you, Brad definitely traded down.”

Molly springs to her feet, layers of fat cascading in front of her, and stretches both arms straight above her head. “Yes!” she yells up to heaven.” Serves the jerk right!”

Kayla jumps up too, gives Molly a double high-five. Her “butt in the front,” as she affectionately calls her low-hanging stomach pooch, scoots the table out a foot, knocking over the bucket of peanuts.

After the two of them have settled back into their chairs, Molly says, “Speaking of ugly, have you heard about the new modeling agency for…let’s see, what do they call them these days…the aesthetically challenged? I saw some of the models on TV the other day and I swear to god, Kay, my ass would make them a Sunday face. I mean, none of them were over twenty, and I’ve never seen so much smooth skin and shiny hair in my life. It was really sad.”

“Sounds like the models in my grandmother’s old magazines. They were all skinny back then, and they had big ol’ white teeth. I can’t believe people used to think that was pretty. Ugh!” She shutters. “Grandma sure is hot, though. My boyfriends are always hitting on her. God, I’d give anything for her liver spots.”

“Now, you know it takes years to develop that kind of beauty. It’s easy to look good when you’re sixty-five, but when you’re in your twenties like us, not so much.” Molly sucks the butter from her fingers and then takes a big swig of her fresh beer. “That reminds me, I’m going to have to order my desserts to go. I really hate to cut this short, but I have an appointment at 1:30 to get my teeth stained. It’s the new red wine treatment. Thought it might help me look older.”

“No problem. I’ve been meaning to schedule an appointment for myself. I heard it’s awesome.”

"Well, don’t expect to get in any time soon; they have a waiting list that stretches from hell to breakfast.”

***

 

From the short story collection, “Flashes,” by Leigh Byrne.