Wednesday, June 11, 2003
FAMILY SECRETS Friday, May 30, 2003
My father's father committed suicide when my father was 14. His family had immigrated to this country from Denmark. That's all I know about it. That I know about it at all is accidental. I overheard a hushed phonecall. My mother was talking to someone. From what I could discern my mother implied that there might be a hereditary factor. It frightened me. I started to worry that maybe something would happen to my dad. Guess I was 11 or 12. Why didn't anybody talk about this? Why were there no pictures of my real paternal grandpa?
My paternal grandmother had remarried and we called him grandpa. At some point I asked my mom what really happened to grandpa Eriksen. She said he fell off a horse, it was an accident. Did I make a mistake? Did I misread an overheard conversation?
Nothing ever seemed authentic to me in family life. Trying to figure out which one of my parents to believe. Who should I trust? It tortured me throughtout my childhood. I didn't know if either of them loved me and I was trying to figure it out. It was never clear. My father is the only one who ever touched me with affection. I remember it that way and the few photos I have of me being held as a baby are in the arms of my father. There is not a single picture of my mother holding me.
On the other hand, my dad had a drinking problem. I remember one horrendous moment when I was in the kitchen with my mom helping her dry the dishes. There was some nervousness because Dad had been drinking and we knew he was still up, sitting alone in the darkened living room. Suddenly he storms into the kitchen in a fury, grabs the knife I had been drying from my hand and holds it to my throat. My mother disappears. He accuses me of talking about him, with my mother, behind his back. We hadn't been talking about him at all. I thought he could kill me. He dragged me into the bathroom and locked the door. We were locked in there together. I remember nothing after that. Nothing.
As I got older, these scenes continued. One summer Saturday, when we lived in Dover, on the side of a steep hill, on a gravel road, he took my bike for a spin. He had been drinking. I was in the kitchen with mom when he came stumbling throuh the door. He looked at us and his face was unrecognizable, dripping in blood, hunks of gravel embedded in his skin. He had done a header off my bike, over the handlebars and landed face first. I screamed and ran to him and held him and said Dad, Dad we have to go to the hospital. He was laughing like a maniac and pushed me away, "no, no honey, I'll be fine, I'll be fine". My mom had left the scene. She ran into the bedroom and locked the door. I thought my Dad would die, that he would bleed to death. I had just gotten my drivers license and knew I had to get him to the hospital. I remember physically trying to push him into the car. He was laughing and in his drunken stupidity trying to push me away. I finally got him in (he was 6 feet tall and about 180 pounds) I drove to the emergency room, waited while they cleaned him up, picked the gravel out of his face, and sent him home. When he sobered-up the following day, he felt remorse. I was sitting on our staircase between the first floor and the bedrooms upstairs. He sat down by my side, put his head in my lap and cried and asked for my forgiveness. I was helpless. I was ashamed. I did not want my dad crying in my lap.
Not long after this incident I went off to college. I could put family life behind me. My mother and father stayed together. When they were both 77 my father revealed to my mother that he had loved another woman and had had a 15 year long affair with her and that the only reason he stayed with my mom was because this women wouldn't marry him. My mom came to me with this news, sobbing, and through her sobs she told me she knew that dad had always had affairs, even with a black woman once, but that she had no idea he had loved someone else. Family secrets.
MY GOD IS BETTER THAN YOUR GOD
The God wars scare the shit out of me. We've got the Bushies stoking up the rabble on the right. God is here, God is with us, God is on our side, God is on my side, but only my God is the true God. Unfortunately the Muslims seem to feel the same way about Allah. A day doesn't go by when I don't shudder as views of Armageddon fill my brain. (Mine come from Mad Max movies, not the Bible)
I was born and baptized Lutheran. There was an old, stone Lutheran church about two miles from my house when we lived in Montclair NJ. The only time anyone in my family ever stepped inside a church was for a wedding, a funeral or a baptism. My parents however felt that a religious education was necessary for me. I don't know where that idea came from. There was no real religious life, no talk of spirituality or even philosophical reflection by anyone in my family, ever, as far back as my memory can take me. My Gram was the most outspoken. She would actually declare that as far as she was concerned there was no such thing as "God". She thought this was an idea invented by weak people. I wasn't with her on her death bed, so I don't know if she changed her mind at the last minute.
Getting up in the pitch dark on those bitter cold Sunday mornings finally convinced me. My mother would haul me out of my bed, make sure I had some decent clothes on (I was about 8 or 9 years old), give me money for the collection plate and send me off to Sunday school with instructions to stay on for the church service after. I had to walk the whole way. She went back to bed with my dad. The hypocrisy of this struck me even then. My resentment fomented. I went a few times and felt like an alien. Some scary folks taught Sunday school. Soon I would leave the house, but never make it to the church. I'd stop off at the local pharmacy that also sold the Sunday paper and had a soda fountain. I'd hang out there, spend my collection money and when church let out, I'd walk home. No one ever checked on me so this strategy worked for a long time. At somepoint, someone who knew me and my parents, told on me. There was a small scene, not bad. Their heart wasn't in it. That ended my religious period.
So, for me, religion goes hand in hand with hypocrisy and the Bushies and their followers have not shaken my belief.
My father's father committed suicide when my father was 14. His family had immigrated to this country from Denmark. That's all I know about it. That I know about it at all is accidental. I overheard a hushed phonecall. My mother was talking to someone. From what I could discern my mother implied that there might be a hereditary factor. It frightened me. I started to worry that maybe something would happen to my dad. Guess I was 11 or 12. Why didn't anybody talk about this? Why were there no pictures of my real paternal grandpa?
My paternal grandmother had remarried and we called him grandpa. At some point I asked my mom what really happened to grandpa Eriksen. She said he fell off a horse, it was an accident. Did I make a mistake? Did I misread an overheard conversation?
Nothing ever seemed authentic to me in family life. Trying to figure out which one of my parents to believe. Who should I trust? It tortured me throughtout my childhood. I didn't know if either of them loved me and I was trying to figure it out. It was never clear. My father is the only one who ever touched me with affection. I remember it that way and the few photos I have of me being held as a baby are in the arms of my father. There is not a single picture of my mother holding me.
On the other hand, my dad had a drinking problem. I remember one horrendous moment when I was in the kitchen with my mom helping her dry the dishes. There was some nervousness because Dad had been drinking and we knew he was still up, sitting alone in the darkened living room. Suddenly he storms into the kitchen in a fury, grabs the knife I had been drying from my hand and holds it to my throat. My mother disappears. He accuses me of talking about him, with my mother, behind his back. We hadn't been talking about him at all. I thought he could kill me. He dragged me into the bathroom and locked the door. We were locked in there together. I remember nothing after that. Nothing.
As I got older, these scenes continued. One summer Saturday, when we lived in Dover, on the side of a steep hill, on a gravel road, he took my bike for a spin. He had been drinking. I was in the kitchen with mom when he came stumbling throuh the door. He looked at us and his face was unrecognizable, dripping in blood, hunks of gravel embedded in his skin. He had done a header off my bike, over the handlebars and landed face first. I screamed and ran to him and held him and said Dad, Dad we have to go to the hospital. He was laughing like a maniac and pushed me away, "no, no honey, I'll be fine, I'll be fine". My mom had left the scene. She ran into the bedroom and locked the door. I thought my Dad would die, that he would bleed to death. I had just gotten my drivers license and knew I had to get him to the hospital. I remember physically trying to push him into the car. He was laughing and in his drunken stupidity trying to push me away. I finally got him in (he was 6 feet tall and about 180 pounds) I drove to the emergency room, waited while they cleaned him up, picked the gravel out of his face, and sent him home. When he sobered-up the following day, he felt remorse. I was sitting on our staircase between the first floor and the bedrooms upstairs. He sat down by my side, put his head in my lap and cried and asked for my forgiveness. I was helpless. I was ashamed. I did not want my dad crying in my lap.
Not long after this incident I went off to college. I could put family life behind me. My mother and father stayed together. When they were both 77 my father revealed to my mother that he had loved another woman and had had a 15 year long affair with her and that the only reason he stayed with my mom was because this women wouldn't marry him. My mom came to me with this news, sobbing, and through her sobs she told me she knew that dad had always had affairs, even with a black woman once, but that she had no idea he had loved someone else. Family secrets.
MY GOD IS BETTER THAN YOUR GOD
The God wars scare the shit out of me. We've got the Bushies stoking up the rabble on the right. God is here, God is with us, God is on our side, God is on my side, but only my God is the true God. Unfortunately the Muslims seem to feel the same way about Allah. A day doesn't go by when I don't shudder as views of Armageddon fill my brain. (Mine come from Mad Max movies, not the Bible)
I was born and baptized Lutheran. There was an old, stone Lutheran church about two miles from my house when we lived in Montclair NJ. The only time anyone in my family ever stepped inside a church was for a wedding, a funeral or a baptism. My parents however felt that a religious education was necessary for me. I don't know where that idea came from. There was no real religious life, no talk of spirituality or even philosophical reflection by anyone in my family, ever, as far back as my memory can take me. My Gram was the most outspoken. She would actually declare that as far as she was concerned there was no such thing as "God". She thought this was an idea invented by weak people. I wasn't with her on her death bed, so I don't know if she changed her mind at the last minute.
Getting up in the pitch dark on those bitter cold Sunday mornings finally convinced me. My mother would haul me out of my bed, make sure I had some decent clothes on (I was about 8 or 9 years old), give me money for the collection plate and send me off to Sunday school with instructions to stay on for the church service after. I had to walk the whole way. She went back to bed with my dad. The hypocrisy of this struck me even then. My resentment fomented. I went a few times and felt like an alien. Some scary folks taught Sunday school. Soon I would leave the house, but never make it to the church. I'd stop off at the local pharmacy that also sold the Sunday paper and had a soda fountain. I'd hang out there, spend my collection money and when church let out, I'd walk home. No one ever checked on me so this strategy worked for a long time. At somepoint, someone who knew me and my parents, told on me. There was a small scene, not bad. Their heart wasn't in it. That ended my religious period.
So, for me, religion goes hand in hand with hypocrisy and the Bushies and their followers have not shaken my belief.
