First day of 7th grade, 1955. A giddy day! All the girls are furtively checking in with each other: Did your period start yet? Yes! (much quiet applause and excitement); Are you wearing a bra? No. (oops…). Definitely a less than stellar report. Read the rest of this entry »
spring’s torrential rains
reshape the inner landscape
of my old-soul heart
Where am I?
What’s going on?
I feel lost on my own home ground
or is it found? Read the rest of this entry »
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 »
“O sinners let’s go down, Down in the river to pray. ” The lyrics of this haunting song echo in my head when I think about my life on the river.* An eerie juxtaposition of natural beauty and heavy-laden humanity. Read the rest of this entry »
Until the last two weeks, this question never crossed my mind. Now I can’t leave it alone. If the answer is Yes, how can that be? As noted in Unpacking My Suitcase, I’m not yet sexually aware. But I’m carrying an unwelcome load of something in my female body and spirit. 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 »
winter sun pierces
my paralyzed heart waking
frozen grief at will
* * * * *
Buried deep, forgotten
Denied, minimized, ignored
Silenced, unexamined
Held at bay
‘It wasn’t that bad’
‘Others had it worse’
Ashamed of my own story
Just another privileged woman
Who doesn’t get it
Afraid to shine a light
On darkness that seems
To have overpowered me
You mean you’re this old and
You still haven’t gotten over it
Beyond it, done already?
Normal
We want normal
How much longer will this take. . . ?
Winter sun does its work
In the fullness of God’s time
Not one moment sooner
Haiku written 25 February 2014
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 26 February 2014
Telling the Truth 