The Ever Changing Feminist in Me : Chapter one

 My childhood induction into the socialization of racism, prejudice,   sexism and gender inequality.  Chapter One. 

     When I began my journey in believing in equal rights I was 17 years old. A woman who had moved to town opened my eyes to the prejudices beliefs and bigotry that we practiced.  At the time our community was completely white except for one male who was black, one grandmother who was black, and the migrant workers who came to town and lived in little cement houses outside of town.

    

 “Mexicans” were something to be feared as they were dirty, and dangerous. (This attitude was directed at the migrant workers that came to our town.” We knew little if anything about African Americans. Interracial socialization was a huge NONO. What I heard was “Birds of a feather flock together.” And you certainly never see chickens breed with turkeys.” So never marry outside you r white European culture. Interracial marriage was really bad. And if for no other reason than “what about the poor children they had,.” those children would be picked on and ostracized their entire lives. Although I remember at age sixteen meeting a very handsome Spanish man and going out a date or two with him. I learned that he was no different then I , and his family was genteel and very nice. My father said “I do not want my grandchildren playing cowboys and Indians with real Indians.” And yet he claimed his grandmother was Native American and he was proud of it.”  

     Our prejudice’s s did not just extend to racial differences. It also concerned religion, sexuality, gender, and financial status. 

      Methodist did not inter-marry Catholics; Catholics worshiped statutes and prayed to those icons. So they were not following the bible and would go to hell.  .

      Homosexuality was a disgrace and certainly they were “pedophiles “that would hunt and injure your children.  Lesbians were just women that could not get a man, or was women who hated men.  They should be taught a lesson if a good man would just “Bed” them they would not be that way

Women’s status was that of housewife and mother. If a woman worked it was because she could not get a decent man. If a woman worked, and her husband stated home, well then either he was an alcoholic who could not work, or was lazy. “A woman could run faster with her dress up than a man with his pants down” This social belief indicated that most rapes were just women who got caught having sex with someone and screamed rape. The term Old Maid was common describing a woman who never married. It was never believed that she did not marry because she chose not to or she must be a lesbian.  

     As I set here today, looking back over the historical inequality issues, I find it unbelievable that people practiced this without thought to the injury they were causing other humans. Their white privileged status was openly practiced. “If you want to be a citizen you damn well better speak English.Att times we as young people received mixed messages of our ingrained socialization of inequality and beliefs.

     These beliefs and values sometimes conflicted with life. I remember mom crying when Martin Luther King was shot. And I remember dad saying that “those people had a right to vote.” That the violence against them was wrong, that they should be treated as human beings. My father a staunch republican voted for JFK. He said he was the first democrat that actually made sense.  But then dad said in the bible “those people were Hams children and were cursed by god.” My parents taught me violence against any human being was wrong. That Christ taught us peace and good will towards all men. That Hitler had been evil. But the Jewish people were still on our list of " Not white others"

 

A Womans Silence turned into a Scream

                                                                                          A Woman's Silence                                              

       I have stared at this blank page, wondering how to begin, and if I began to write and open up that door, would the words ever have an end. A strong women in my life told me once, that if “every woman; who was abused, would allow just one tear to fall.  The whole world would flood. Maybe then justice would be done”. 

 I claimed the silence as my bitter friend. Silence kept me safe .It allowed me to continue being a part of the family. Silence allowed my mother to live in peace, not torn apart because her children were at war. My silence allowed her not to make the choice of what child she loved more. Who would she believe if she were to hear  about the years of sexual terrorism I would have to tell to stop the silence. Would she believe the  daughter,  who was diagnosed with a mental illness, or a son  who she had spent her life protected because he was not like the other boys.  do I even have a right to destroy the family "good name" 

 

 Eventually the silence turned to a scream, it happened on the  day my daughter,  was turning four. I looked at her, and the clarity and reality of the abuse hit me like a runaway freight train. It opened up the scars and i began to bleed like the day they stole my virginity. I was at an age I did not know my ABC’s and had not been taught life’s stark realities.

  Mom had bought me a new green dress, and pretty white tights, My brother Jug had left for college, and Red had became the oldest one in a world where there was just one girl. A world full of older boys  that controlled the outside world where mama could not see.   Jug was not there to hold my hand, and help me pick the flowers, keeping me safe from the all the boys who tormented me.   But you see my daughter turned four, and she looked like me I could no longer control my screams. Her laughter was so innocent, her hugs and kisses did not reflect what I had been brought up to believe. That my behavior provoked the boys and men , that I was responsible for the raw naked sexualization of me when I  was four. . I knew then that I had not been the reason the older boys  took away my innocent smile.  My shame had been replaced that day, with sheer and utter rage some  21 years after the day my green dress was wrecked, I spoke. I opened my mouth, and the tears, and rage, and awful pain, spilled like a broken water main. And Brother Jug heard the words, and tears run down his face. Then he said I am sorry for ever going away. For leaving you in a world I had to escape. His wife went to the store, and she brought home a cake, and on it she wrote, Happy Birthday. And we celebrated my 5^th birthday, only he put a number 1 on my cake. I still cherish the picture taken that day, as I see my brother’s eyes and all his pain. And he began to tell the truth, of how my brother Red always took the blame for the childish things the had done. That dad would beat him with the belt on any given day.  He told the stories I had not heard, the memories and the shame. He told of how I never walked until I was two, because he carried me.

 I told my mom, I told my dad, I told my brothers every one of them. Dobber he just walked away, I see him now again, and Oley, he began to tell and admitted it was true. Butch, he just held me, and said it would be okay, G--g he told his wife of feeling so ashamed. My Mom she cried, and walked into her room, and father he sat there unsure of what to do. Red he lied  and said he never touched me and that it was me and the other boys that started the sexual games. He never told of the playboys and husslers he gave the boys to read. He never told how we ran naked as he watched the boys tormenting me. . He was the oldest then, he never told what they and he did to me.  A few months back he almost died, from years of the hell he lived in. I called him on the phone that day, and for hours we talked of all the pain, and the apology was slow in coming, and I apologized too. I told him I was sorry too, and Brother Red, I forgive you. 

 The story of my silence finally stopped taking away my breath.  Sadly it would take many years from that day in 1985, before I sobered up. 14 attempts at suicide, 3 destructive marriages, I have lost count of the diagnoses, Doctors and Psychiatrists piled on me, or how many times they locked the psyche ward door, before I had enough.  It wasn’t until I chose to live, that life began again.