Must see movie, Short Term 12. Children in a group home where they are protected from their parents and others in their lives who abuse or neglect them. Saw this movie yesterday afternoon. Pain in my lower right shoulder….just noticed it. Flashes of memories bubbling up to the surface. Memories and questions all jumbled up together. My heart cries out for answers while my soul reminds me to be patient. “They will come. Listen. Be willing to see and hear. Whatever arises you can and will handle the emotions that go with the wounds of the past.”
Why? Why? How? How were we overlooked by social services? My brothers just quit going to school. Did any of their teachers wonder what had happened to them? They were at home smoking pot and listening to music.
When I put these words on paper, my world turns upside down. My brother, Scott, living on the street for the past 30 years. In and out of jail, prison, institutionalized briefly until he checked himself out. A scrapper, who collects metal and sells it to get money for food and other necessities. Here he is as an innocent, smiling infant. How precious.
Where would Scott be today had there been early intervention. Educators are putting their money on early schooling. I cannot disagree more. What good is early education when those same children go home daily to drug addicts, child molesters, parents who either completely neglect them or who abuse them for their own amusement? How will early education help the children from these homes? they need counseling. They need love, attention, and healing.
I made straight A’s in school, but that did not prevent me from smoking and drinking, from being sexually active at age 11, from sneaking out at night, and from playing hookie from school. Straight A’s did not help me fit in with the kids at school who came from “normal” homes. God knows I tried. When my parents would not or could not give me money to buy the clothes I wanted, the clothes like the “other girls” were wearing, I stole them. My closet was filled with outfits I had shoplifted. My parents never asked how I got those garments.
The rule of thumb at our house was, “Be seen as little as possible and never be heard.” Noise was prohibited. We were not allowed to play in the house, to watch TV, or to talk on the phone. We, my brothers and sister and me, spent as much time as possible outside, at the houses of friends or in our rooms. We did the best we could to avoid contact with my Father, who enjoyed procreation, but hated having children. He repeatedly reminded us that we were the bane of his existence. We were his indentured slaves. At his behest, we washed cars, mowed lawns, washed dishes, cooked meals, cleaned the house, the gutters, the windows, stripped furniture, collected fire word and built fires, decorated the Christmas tree, and wrapped all our own presents. God forbid we not act surprised when we opened the very same presents we had worked so hard to wrap.
If any of us dared to speak up, to complain or refuse to comply, we were beaten, yelled at, banished to our rooms, forbidden to eat with the family, grounded and then ignored for days, treated as though we did not exist.
Where were our neighbors, our relatives, and our family friends? Did they bury their heads in the sand. Did they choose to look the other way. Did they convince themselves that we, the lost children, would somehow survive? Well, they were wrong to turn away from us.
Thank God there were no guns in our home. I have no doubts that my brother, Scott, would have taken one to school and started firing. He was my father’s personal punching bag. He never had a chance. Scott never measured up to my father’s ridiculously high standards. No matter what he did, my father denigrated him. My father hit him, yelled at him, shamed him, abused him mentally and physically. I begged my father to leave Scott alone. I stood between them. I intervened until the day my Dad turned on me. When I felt the back of his hand across my face, I made a promise to myself to never defend Scott again. I did not.
Writing into the Light 