It’s spring 1953. I’m 9 years old and in the 5th grade at a Christian grade school. Because I did 3rd and 4th grades in one year, my classmates are a year older than I am. Right now my teacher, Mrs. Wilson, is making an announcement to the girls. “Be sure you bring your signed permission slips with you tomorrow.”
What permission slips? What’s she talking about? My classmate tells me it’s for the film. Read the rest of this entry »
For years I knew Daddy’s beatings and rules didn’t give the full story about how I was groomed to be a victim. Yet I’ve never spoken publicly about the full story. I didn’t have a clue how to talk about it safely. Besides, who would believe my report? Especially if they knew my father. Read the rest of this entry »
It took more than beatings and Good Girl Rules to groom me to be a victim. It also took small, calculated and uncalculated, direct and indirect intrusions on my body, my spirit, my mind and my emotions. I call it the air I breathed.
Beatings have a distinct advantage over the air I breathe. Read the rest of this entry »
Moving from California to the Deep South marked the end of my early childhood. Though I wasn’t yet sexually aware, I was already carrying a heavy load in my 7-year-old female body and spirit. Because we didn’t have room in the car for extra luggage, I left behind more than I wanted to. I also brought things I didn’t want or need. Here’s what I’ve unpacked from my suitcase as of today. I have no doubt there’s more. Read the rest of this entry »
Summer 1951
I’ve been wanting to write you a private letter for a long time. Mother and Daddy won’t let me send you letters they haven’t read first. They don’t want me to tell you anything sad or anything about money. But I’m not going to show them this letter. It’s just for you. Read the rest of this entry »
Is there a better question? This past week I searched for an answer to ‘Where is my Mother?’ But I couldn’t find one; I kept getting mired in unfathomable complexity. Yes, Mother was a complex person, especially in contrast to my father. But I needed to find another approach. Read the rest of this entry »
iced ground wind-whipped snow
mother squirrel looks for scarce food
huddled nestlings wait
* * * * *
She’s sitting on the frigid deck rail outside my kitchen window.
I’m sitting at my kitchen table, eating hot breakfast.
Her nipples stand out—she has babies to feed.
Her coat is heavy, tangled, patchy, worn.
She watches me from her icy perch.
She seems anxious, haggard.
She doesn’t rest for long.
The babies are hungry.
So is she.
I can’t help thinking about Mother. Especially after we moved out of our communal Southwest home into our one-family Southeast home. Yes, it was quiet, less frenetic. Good for Mother’s health. But I wonder.
Being on our own as a family is a shock. Mother is still recovering from polio, finding ways to live life without bodily functions she can’t take for granted anymore. Yet no matter how she feels, we need to eat. Three times a day.
I think about our communal home. Here’s what Mother can’t count on anymore:
Granted, it wasn’t paradise. People had to get along with each other. Some seemed to do more of their fair share than others. But we weren’t hungry, and Mother wasn’t responsible for getting it all on the table three times a day.
Haiku written 12 January 2014
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 16 February 2014
Sister #3
It’s 1949. I’m 6 years old. Sister #3 is 6 months old and still nursing. She’s sitting on my parents’ bed with Father and me. He’s playing with her—a little game of reach and grab. He asks me to watch and see whether she’s moving her left arm. No, she is not. Read the rest of this entry »
A Note to Mother
I still wonder where you were when I needed an advocate, a safe listening ear, a cheerleader and a comforter. I also wonder why you thought I would be able to deal with my father without any help from you.
Since you’re not here anymore, Read the rest of this entry »
I wish I knew. As a child I asked her to tell me her story. Sometimes she gave me bits and pieces, but she didn’t seem to think her story was very important. Especially if that meant talking about how she felt when she was growing up. Besides, there was always another baby in her arms needing attention. Read the rest of this entry »
Telling the Truth 