TRIGGER ALERT – Depictions of abuse. Please be aware.
Saturdays – The mixed bag
Saturdays. They were all over the place in terms of what went on.
The “normal” ones
There were actually some relatively “normal” Saturdays, such as the ones where we headed out on one of those family day-trips, or out of town to do clothes shopping or bulk meat purchases. Some Saturdays, there were no fights, but this was rare. If it weren’t Saturday, then the fight would be on Sunday.
Sometimes we didn’t go anywhere but did chores. Or when we were young, the exciting thing was to accompany my dad and my grandfather to the dump…the 1960s name for a landfill. That was always exotic to drive out to the southern edge of town, get in line, and wind slowly up to the top of that hill, then be directed to back up into a wall of garbage, trash, and broken items. We weren’t allowed out of the car, and the place reeked, but still, it was fascinating to a young child.
Other times, Dad would decide it was a good day to try to teach our pet parakeet tricks. In a normal household, this might seem like a fun idea. It never was. First of all, our parakeet was terrified of Dad. Whenever he walked in the house, the bird would freak out, squawk, and fly into the sides of the cage. So Dad taking the bird into the bathroom to learn new tricks usually resulted in him getting more impatient and angry, and the bird screeching and flying into the walls
Afternoons could be calm on a “good-mood-day” for Dad. Especially in the summer, with the windows open and a breeze flowing through our apartment. He’d play his usual *Victory at Sea* or *Herb Alpert* record albums, and life would be relaxed. And the evenings sometimes included board or card games. Those days were the ones we lived for and savored. Those were the ones that made the others seem like a bad dream that would never come back.
Always, the weirdness…
But still, even on the good days, weirdness showed up.
When I was young, it was common to go over to Mom and Dad’s bed and let them know I was awake. Again, in normal situations, that could be a time of bonding, snuggles, and easing into a day together. But with him, it became an opportunity to grope.
I was terrified at how boldly he would grab at parts of my body under my pajamas while Mom was right there next to him in bed. She had her back to us. It was so quiet as he slid his hands over me for what seemed like forever. I just kept looking over at Mom, wishing to God she would turn over. But she never did.
Even after breakfast, while doing the dishes and with Mom right across the room at the stove, he would brazenly grab at my chest, or slip his hands under my clothes. I so prayed for her to turn around, but she never did. To me, the silence of those moments was deafening, but she never seemed to notice. And for him, it was almost like he was flaunting his power.
Family “shower”
One Saturday afternoon, when I was pretty young, Dad decided that we needed to learn that men’s and women’s bodies were different. So we had to have the “family shower.” He insisted that we all get undressed and shower together. I don’t think my mother was keen on this, but she didn’t fight him on it. I know I was uncomfortable, both having to get undressed in front of him and even more, seeing him and my mother naked. Why did we have to do this?
I remember feeling that his body looked stupid, and I wasn’t ready for seeing the presence of hair in various places on adult bodies. I couldn’t wait for that to be over. I look back on it now and assume this was just another opportunity for him to get some inappropriate “gratification” at our expense. All while making it seem natural, appropriate, and educational.
While that event was never repeated, there were more than enough other weird times to be confused over. He had taken us to the lake to go swimming one Saturday afternoon. That was fine. But when we came back, he decided we needed to walk up the street to talk to Mom’s friend about something. Again, fine. But…we didn’t change out of our bathing suits and get dressed first.
It was no big deal for me because I was young. But he walked up the street, shirtless, in his very tight, knit bathing suit, which left little to the imagination. Even at that age, I remember wondering about that. And in looking back as an adult woman, I had to wonder how uncomfortable Mom’s friend must have felt standing there talking to a mostly naked man in a tight bathing suit.
When we got back home, Mom had returned from doing errands and saw him. I still remember her reaction.
“You went up there like that?!”
He just laughed it off and said, “I wear this at the beach. What difference does it make if I wear it here?”
I heard his words. But I saw Mom’s reaction. In my mind, I agreed with her even if I couldn’t yet explain why. It just seemed wrong.
Saturday afternoons
I don’t know how it came about that on Saturday afternoons, I would be left at home with Dad when I was young, while everyone else went out shopping. One Saturday afternoon was particularly horrifying for me. I remember nothing before or after it. But that moment is seared in my brain.
I had no idea what was going on…or why. I only knew I was gagging. He kept encouraging me to open my mouth wider. I don’t think it lasted very long because I knew I couldn’t do it, and it was going badly. Probably because I was so young. I distinctly remember that he didn’t get mad, but said, “Don’t worry. It’s okay. You’re young. We’ll try this again when you get older.”
I also know he “returned the favor” of that activity, doing it to me. Again, we were in the living room. No one else was home. He grabbed at my jeans and pulled them down, then shoved his face against me, scraping my leg with his rough beard. I wanted to be anywhere else, but he kept looking up at me and eagerly asking me if I liked it.
The worst time, though, was one Saturday afternoon when my Grandfather came downstairs to visit. Dad, in his infinite arrogance, left our apartment door open so the fresh breezes could flow through.
He had me on the couch. Suddenly, the floor nearby creaked. My Grandfather had walked into our apartment and was coming down the hall. Dad had to jump up and pretend to be doing something with the door frame, while I had to rush to pull up my jeans. He chatted up my Grandfather like nothing was amiss. I have always wondered if my Grandfather saw anything and just kept silent.
Afterward, Dad just laughed and joked about it, acting as if we were a couple of co-conspirators rejoicing in getting away with something. Like it was some private victory or private joke we shared, and he acted as if I shared his satisfaction at pulling it off. I was horrified inside, but I had to hide my reaction. I knew better than to say anything against him.
The other thing I knew by then was that when he did things to me, whatever I was feeling inside, I had to hide that reaction. Instead, on the outside, I had to enjoy it or else. And climax. If I didn’t, there would be hell to pay. For me, it was a double punishment. I had to endure what he was doing, then if I wasn’t “happy enough” about it, I would get to endure his anger.
It was so confusing and upsetting. For one thing, I didn’t know I could “fake it,” nor at that age would I have been even able to know how to do that. Even worse, there was this confusion in me about why my body liked it when I wanted him to leave me alone. I didn’t know it was normal for a body to react to touch. Whether I wanted to or not, my body responded to his touch. That added a huge layer of shame, guilt, and self-blame to the whole thing.
I didn’t understand any of it. Just that I kept asking God to help me, and in the meantime, I was on my own. I was totally convinced I was abnormal, on top of doing something wrong. I just felt damned no matter what I did.
If I avoided him, I paid for it. If I gave in but not “enough,” I paid for it. If I didn’t climax, I paid for it. And if I did a good enough job, he would be happy…but I wasn’t. Every time I thought about my mother and what she would feel if she knew, I just felt like the world’s worst person.
And then there was God. I knew what I was learning in religion class. And this HAD to be wrong. But Dad kept saying it was okay…good even. Who was right??? I will talk about school, religion, God, and the “other Saturday afternoon activity” — Confession — in a bit.
So in my mind, I felt like an aberration of nature. I decided that’s what I was — not in those words then. But looking back, those words describe what I felt about myself. Just an aberration of nature.
He did these things to me. I did the best I could for as long as possible to avoid it. But then I would have to let him do it. And my body went along with it. It was just too much for my brain to process. And by this point in childhood, it had been happening for as long as I could remember, so if it was wrong, I was in it “too deep” by now. I saw myself as just as guilty as him, because I let him.
In my mind, I was sure no one else ever did these things. And that no one else’s body ever felt the things my body was feeling. So I just accepted that I would never be like anyone else. I would just do the best I could. But I was an aberration of nature. And I would have to keep this to myself, like he said.
The “Lot”
When I was in the 6th grade, my parents and a couple of their friends bought 40 acres of woodland on the outside of town that we all referred to as “The Lot.” Even our dog knew the term and would get totally excited because she knew what it meant.
It was a beautiful place…except on Saturday afternoons alone with him. Once we had that property, he went up there frequently. The goal was that someday my parents would build a house there. In the meantime, Dad went up there to cut trees, clean up brush, and work on an area where the house would eventually go. And it went without saying that I was expected to go “help him.”
While I loved the woods, I hated the car rides. Those were his times to share all kinds of things with me, things I really didn’t need to hear. But I will speak of that later.
As to being out in the woods, I thought for sure that since there was no place he could get at me, I was safe. But that didn’t stop him. He would take me into the woods, down behind a grove of apple trees, and just start up like normal. I was appalled, and convinced “someone” walking through the woods would catch us.
He just laughed. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about getting caught, about what anyone thought, and most of all, what my mother wanted.
On one particular Saturday, my mother made it clear she wanted me to stay home and help her around the house. I was relieved. Until he told me I was coming with him. I explained about Mom. He didn’t care. Nor did he tell her. I had to.
She never said a word to him. But she cornered me in my room by my bookcase, very quietly, so he wouldn’t hear us. Her face was a mix of deep hurt, rage, sorrow, and exasperation. Almost in tears, she got in my face and demanded to know, “Why don’t you love me?!!”
Those words pierce my heart to this day, even as I know she was wrong to confront me. She should have confronted him. But I didn’t know that then.
Her words destroyed me. I stared at her so long and hard. I felt so horrible, and I could see her hurt. For the only time in my entire childhood, I almost told her the truth. Despite all his brainwashing, in that moment, I almost told her all of it. What he was doing to me. When. How. I SO wanted her to help me. Protect me. Make it stop.
But she just kept demanding to know why I was like that. I looked deeply into her eyes. Saw her hurt and rage. And in that moment, the words died in my throat. I knew I couldn’t tell her. She might not believe me. She might blame me. Even if she didn’t, she probably couldn’t do anything. And if Dad found out, it would blow up sky high.
No. Me. The terrible daughter. The aberration of nature. I knew in that moment, I couldn’t say a word. I would just have to keep it to myself. Always. No one would EVER understand.
So…I went to the Lot….
The “Late Movie”
One of the things I always liked at my Grandparents’ house in Bridgeport was all the old movies they could watch from the New York City TV stations. That was not an option where we lived, as we were just a bit too far north of the city, but still, on Saturday nights, the local station would broadcast a program called “The Late Movie.” And it often showed many of my favorite movies.
Usually, I felt safe staying up because Mom was there too, even if she fell asleep on the couch. But a few times, Dad decided this was his chance to get at me. So he would yell at Mom for being poor company since she was asleep. He’d yell at her to just go to bed and wouldn’t let up until she finally did. Still, I thought I was safe because their bed was literally just a few feet away from the living room, and with no door, she was literally just across the room.
But that didn’t stop him. He would try to pull me over. I was both furious and frantic. Furious because this was my one thing I liked to do – watch old movies – and yet again, he was taking something from me, and especially to, yet again, grope me.
But even more, I was frantic because 1) I didn’t want to do this and 2) MOM WAS RIGHT ACROSS THE ROOM! I was so upset that he would do this, and she would see it! What would she feel?! This was one time I just couldn’t do this, even as I knew he would make me pay for it the next day. I avoided him as much as I could, and begged off his “entreaties.”
He was angry. And me? I was angry, horrified, disappointed, and afraid, and I knew what was coming. Just like those doughnut mornings when I refused him, just like any other time I refused him, I would pay for this refusal tomorrow— Sunday.
Soul Mosaic 
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