The Onion Girl

Silently Seething

2012-01-23T22:00:00.000-08:00

I've been in a silent seething rage, since oh, about age 5. Meaning that's been for the the past 40 years. Over the past few months one of my primary issues has gotten stirred up a lot in regard to the stories and allegations swirling about the Penn State - Jerry Sandusy (who is a scumbag who should be castrated w/a rusty knife and no pain meds) scandal and the Joe Pa-Paterno is a saint who should be beatified immediately bullshit media-maelstrom. Upon hearing the latest news of Joe Paterno's death this past weekend, Facebook was ablaze with posts and tweets re-posted extolling his greatness and how sad it is that he died. Don't get me wrong, I'm not happy that the man died, it is indeed sad that his final days were marred by scandal and finger pointing. I'm sure he did die with the proverbial broken heart and spirit. What sickens me and has me so fighting mad is that there's been a constant barrage of media and social commentary about "Poor Joe-Pa", as though his inaction and lack of leadership during this disgusting child sex abuse scandal don't matter. Joe's been painted to be the scapegoat in this scandal, the trustees of PSU have been made to look like members of some Skull & Bones Fraternal Order and Jerry Sandusky has not been vilified nearly enough in the press for the crimes that he's committed. What no one seems to be saying, tweeting or lighting candles about is how sorry we all out to be towards the kids who were the true victims in this situation.

I feel further agitated about all the crocodile tears spilled, the looting and riots, the lighting of candles and lights on in his memory at Beaver Stadium, the flags flying at half-staff in Harrisburg and in (Not-so) Happy Valley all in his honor and memory instead of in honor of the children who had their lives ruined and childhoods stolen. This is all in the name of F^C%ING FOOTBALL. I've always hated the sport; now I despise it. Then again, I'm more a fan of baseball, America's past-time. It may have it's issues, hello, Juicers and Big-headed arrogant pigs who think they are better than the sport and its fans, but as far as I know, there aren't any continual issues with raping kids and covering it up so as to not upset the money machine.

I did not attend Penn State - I never wanted to go there. The campus was too big, too far away and I had no desire to be lost in the brain-washing culture of the WE ARE PENN STATE mentality It's all about conformity and football, two issues of which I have no interest. I just don't "get it". My partner's brother, his wife, their cousins and friends, and many other friends and acquaintances of mine are PSU alumni. The school is so huge that it's impossible not to know several dozen people who attended. I could easily get into a fighting war of words with all the people I know who changed their Facebook profile pictures to the Nittany Lion with a tear drop, or those who now sport the illustrations of Saint Joe wearing his trademark fedora and a halo floating above it. Buying into this mass culture loving memory of all that is sacred and holy at PSU smacks of people not thinking, of towing the line and yes, feeling a part of something that is larger than they are. And that's what bugs me a lot too. There's no individual thinking. There's also the being a part of a community that makes me a wee bit envious, as I've never really shared that feeling, having been an outsider all my life. When you grow up with shattered trust, it's pretty difficult to want to join others and feel safe in the collective group. Being beaten by your parents, verbally and emotionally humiliated your whole life and molested as a child does that to a person.

A facebook friend I know from high school posted an article from the UK about not rushing to turn Joe Paterno into a martyr or saint so fast. It takes someone from across the world to be able to objectively see the issues of turning him into a hero. Last night I was raging with anger and pain over the non-stop tributes, the tv media talking to PSU students who were lamenting that his last days shouldn't have been like this. He should have been allowed to go out with dignity, blah blah frickin' blah. Cry me a flippin river. To this I add, he was a FOOTBALL Coach. He didn't solve world peace, create antidotes to disease or help the economy outside of Penn State. I know all about his hard work and dedication, the money he gave and helped to raise to and for the school. What I cannot get past, and this is where it turns so personal for me, is that he didn't do anything to help those kids who were raped and abused by Jerry Sandusky. He did the bare minimum and turned it over to those who did nothing, for years. There are other posts I found today, shared or written by people I know. A friend wrote that she didn't understand why the flags were flying at half staff. A link to a blog was added, that sums up the anger and rage that so many of us survivors of incest and rape go through. It's angrier than I could ever be and knowing the depths of my own rage, that's pretty intense. It's called, F@cK Joe P. It's worth a read as it captures things that I've not wanted to say out loud before.

I could go on and on but what's the point? It's already been written by far more eloquent writers than me. What I will say is that the trigger point for me is about the fact that responsible people in charge of kids did nothing but look the other way, wring their hands and let this happen for years, again and again. As a child who was molested by my step-father, Ray, and then by others in my childhood, this kind of damage lasts forever and mars whatever chances you have at having a normal sexual identity. Just about everyone in my family left me to the wolves. If it weren't for outsides, teachers, the kindly old lady from down the street who took care of me, I be another tragic statistic, turning to drugs or worse. No one in my family stepped in to stop the abuse. Everyone was too afraid, didn't want to get involved, worried that my mother would, I don't know, turn her Medusa look towards them and turn them to real stone? I felt damaged from my earliest memories, far too young to know for certain what age I was when it happened to me, but it was between the ages of 3 to 6. Is that normal? No. To be sexually abused, physically abused, verbally abused as much as I was before I was 6 years old gives you a certain perspective - a bit skewed and very fcuked up when it comes to authority figures, giving and receiving love, and feeling normal. You never feel normal because you aren't. When those in responsible positions either do nothing to help or help to perpetuate the abuse either through inaction or by further adding to the abuse, you feel more than let down. You feel depressed and worthless. So reading about this memorial tributes to Joe Pa and how he's been maligned really pisses me off. No, he didn't rape any kids but he sure as hell helped to make sure it continued by not doing something more than tell somebody else. He's as culpable as Jerry Sandusky and that coward who witnessed the infamous shower scene, assistant Coach Mike McQueary. Funny enough, he's not been made out to be a hero in this debacle, thankfully. I do think he needs to be held accountable too for his role in not stepping up and taking action where it was needed.

So all of you at PSU, think about this for a moment when you are mourning the life of Joe Pa - he was a mere mortal, who did some great things but he left this world with a stain on his soul, one that can never be removed. A stain like the one smeared on all those boys, and all of us who have suffered such abuses. Pray for us when you're saying your prayers for Joe's soul. We all could use a bit of peace too.

Hidden Secrets

2012-01-14T20:59:00.000-08:00

Every house and consequently everyone has secrets. Things that are hidden away, carefully packed or tucked away from prying eyes for only you to know and see. If Life is A House, then the life lived inside of that house could be a house of: horrors; mystery; cards; straw; pain; the rising sun; or a fun house; the list could go on infintium.

We recently moved to a new house, a bit bigger than our previous dwelling and absolutely free-standing. Having resided in row homes and apartments for my whole life, living in a detached house with its own driveway, porch, yard is completely new for me. I haven't wanted to rush into decorating it rather I want to live in this house to have it tell me what it wants, how it should be dressed and layered. It's an interesting house, done in the early 1920's Arts & Crafts style and it is rich with a mysterious history, a tale of celebrity and intrigue. There is rehab work here literally and figuratively and the neighbors have been slowly filling us in on the details of what it used to look like and about the former owners. The house was a shambles over the past decade. Sometime within the past 4 or 5 years it was purchased and flipped — transformed from its decaying decrepitude and rebuilt with its character intact. Since we are the third set of owners since the rehab, I didn't think I would find much in the way of things hidden and left behind. The past owner carefully stripped away all of her physical material traces and left the house bare but beautiful.

One night when I was putting away clothes and trying to empty some boxes, I got a powerful feeling to look inside of the original closet within the walk-in closet room on our 2nd floor. Really, we have a walk-in closet that should be our son's or could be a guest room! Since it's so well appointed and organized, I'm not about to tear it apart to convert it back to a room. Anyway, as I started poking around in corners I happened to look up into the corner of the original closet and I saw two pieces of paper sticking out of the wall and ceiling of what should be the door jamb of the original closet. The photos opening this post were the finds hidden away up there, two old nude photos that look as though they fell out of a time capsule from 1943. I felt as though I had discovered a secret about this house. It reminded me of two events of my childhood, of finding things I should have found, hidden in secret alcoves.

When I was about 7 years old, I found an old box of condoms placed in the cornices of the area where the basement stairs form small shelves underneath of themselves. In this negative space is an area that can be used for creating nooks or shelves. This was in an apartment building where we were living in the mid 1970's. I was trying to find a place to hide something of my own, money, a secret code, some small spy toy with which I was obsessed. I wasn't the first person to use this spot, obviously. The box was small, 3 inches by 3 inches and about a half-inch high, kind of perfect for slipping in a few coins or a note. I remember having no idea what the word condom meant and I thought the condom itself was some weird balloon. Most likely I filled it with water and tossed it off of our balcony into the street.

I told about my find of the box to the lady down the street who was my guardian angel and adopted grandmother, Mrs. Rhoads. I remember when I told her about how the box was labeled, she grew pale and concerned. Now, Mrs. Rhoads was the epitome of a grandmotherly type. She had grey curly hair, a round soft apple pie face and she wore big, round owlish glasses. She smelled of sweet talcum powder and rouge and she was always crocheting. Mrs. Rhoads was the first person in a long line of angels in my life who saved me, cared for me and told me that I could be anything I wanted. Her consternation about this intriguing little box was warranted. But to the 7 year old spunky tom-boy that I was, I wanted to keep it for myself. Oh, the arguments that ensued. She wanted me to bring the box to her immediately; she'd give me something else for me to use as my treasure box. It was an old dirty thing, why would I want such a thing? Now, having come from a broken home where inappropriate sexual deeds were common, I think I had some idea that what I found wasn't fit for a 7 year old. Then again, by the time I was 7, I had already had my fair share of inappropriate things happen to me that weren't fit for a 17 year old. An early sexual education is putting it in too clinical and mild of terms. Poor Mrs. Rhoads, if her hair hadn't already been going white, I'm sure this incident added a few new silver streaks to her curls. After a few weeks of hanging onto this precious box, Mrs. Rhoads prayers were answered, it fell apart from repeated use. I found something else to use and another hiding spot for my spy gear and mad money.

As a teenager my first cousin, Darcy and I were oddly obsessed with my father and his early death. My dad died when I was 6 years old, on my 6th birthday, from a drug over-dose. It's the fact of my life and I'm not sad or melancholy about it, it just is. By the time he died, my mother had already been married and divorced twice — first to my father for about 2 years, and then to Ray, the horrible and abusive step-father who molested me. By the start of 1st grade, in September of 1973, I was already damaged goods with a twice divorced mother. I was an original latch key kid living in a single parent-household. We were not a common sight in suburban, lower-middle class Aldan, PA - Delaware County.

By the time I reached 13 I was ripe for all kinds of mischief and eager for delving into the back story about my father, about whom I knew almost nothing. Darcy and I were spending the weekend at our Bobbci's house and were sleeping in what used to be my father's room. We were conjuring spirits, taking sheets of tracing paper and making pencil rubbings from his desk and bureau to find evidence of his handwriting and to read what he had written. Remembering my find from under the stairs from years before, we went down to the basement to rummage hoping to find some tucked away scrap or hidden map to his life. Up in the cellar eves we found a letter shoved under the floor boards. I can barely remember what was written. It was a letter to my father, from some friend of his who was in jail. My dad had been in and out of jail a few times, probably for petty theft and drug offenses. We had the letter in our possession all of ten minutes before my grandmother came down to see what we were up to and she saw what we had found. Before I could even read it, Bobbci grabbed the letter from Darcy and tore it to shreds. We were yelled at, punished and prohibited from poking around the house ever again.

My father's death had taken a toll on my grandmother and she was forever crying whenever I saw her. As an adult, I can see that my grandmother had a lot of loss and sorrow in her life. She was a proud woman from hard-working, cold Polish stock. I'm sure seeing me reminded her keenly of my father, I look just like him. It couldn't have been easy to deal with, his young death and my erie resemblance to him. But as a kid and a teenager, her tears were like crocodile tears and her cold demeanor was off-putting. The shredding of that letter felt like whatever small part of him I had as my own was taken away from me. We never talked about the incident again and I felt ashamed and angry for a very long time since all I really wanted was to know who my father was and what about him was in me that was good.

Finding these nude photos in my new house brought back a rush of feelings for me, about sexual conduct and hidden sexual secrets. These photos have probably been in this house for over 60 years. How no one else found them before is a mystery that will never be solved (unless they belong to the past former own, and then the mystery of how they came to be behind a door jamb of a closet within a closet is another tale). I choose to believe that some young man had a cache of stag photos in this room and this hiding spot was out of mom's, grandmother's or his wife's knowledge. They may have been titillating for their day but in today's world they are a quaint reminder of a secret that no longer needs to be shameful.