MARLENE AND ME
Despite my difficult childhood, often being forced to take care of my sister, I love Marlene and she loves me.
For my most recent birthday, Marlene sent me a lovely card, with the following note:
Dear Mary,
I hope your birthday is wonderful! I know I’m really early, but the weeks and months just seem to fly by, and I didn’t want to miss your birthday. Like you in your last card, health issues just seem to go on and I don’t have the energy or want to be depressing, so it is wise just not to get into it.
Anyway, I just wanted you to know how much I have always loved you and how important you were in helping me to be what I am. You’re the mother I never had, the sister I love, the most important person in my life. It doesn’t matter whether we saw each other in person, since we are both hermits. I think of you all the time and hope you are well and happy.
Always know I love you,
Marlene
MARLENE’S BRAVERY
I have been thinking about how my sister and I have dealt with the trauma of our childhoods. I was in fear every day because of both Ann and my father. As a grown woman, I have pushed it back as far in my brain as possible and have plowed through for years until now. Marlene has also plowed through, but she has wisely taken medications most of her life to help her deal with all this.
When Marlene went through it, she told everyone what was happening, even though she knew she was going to get hit for telling, every time. When she told me about her life with Ann, I felt she had been much stronger than I had been.
To me, my sister was a brave little girl who has paid dearly through the years for the early mistreatment by our parents. In fact, we both have paid dearly for those years. In many ways, we still are paying.
ANN’S PLANS FOR WEALTH, SHATTERED
One thing that I have forgotten to mention is that I did have voice lessons for approximately four years, paid for by my grandfather. As I look back now, I wonder what Ann was thinking. Any time my grandfather wanted to do something good for me, Ann expected him to do the same for both her son, my step-brother Norman, and her daughter, my half-sister, Marlene. That usually would not happen, so she would not let him do things for me. For some reason, though, my voice lessons were OK with her.
There came a time when a movie was being made in a small town north of ours. Ann dressed the three of us up in what she thought were the best clothes we had and drove us to the town with her sister. She had us walk the streets where they were making the movie. Thinking about it now, I wonder: did Ann think, as did Mrs. Callahan, that my voice was so good that someday I would be someone who would be a success and become Ann’s cash cow? Or perhaps she thought that one of us would be picked out of the crowd at the movie scene and help make money for her.
I always felt that Ann married my father because of the wealth my grandparents had succeeded in building in their lives, thinking that wealth would then be passed down to my father and his brother and sisters and their spouses. Who knew how stupid my father and his brother would be with all of the business and land? No one could blame their failures on my Aunt Jennie, but they did!
All the lake-side cottages were furnished by my grandparents. Ann and her sister went out to the Lake and broke into many of them and took whatever they wanted. I am sure that a lot of the people who came every year had some of their own possessions in the cottages, as they had rented the same ones every year.
Ann thought she was marrying into a wealthy family, and she was. Who knew that the children of that wealth would be so stupid and lose it all? Once, there was no mortgage on the property or the business. All they had to do was take care of it and pay taxes. They failed. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
COLLEGE?
As I entered my senior year in high school, my grandfather wanted me to start applying to a few colleges I would like to attend. All the music teachers and other teachers thought I would be able to get at least a partial scholarship, for singing, to the Juilliard School of Music in New York.
I wanted no part of that. I just wanted to get as far away from New York as possible. I applied to the University of Miami and was accepted. My thoughts at that time were not to go to college to get educated but to get free.
My father and Ann would not let me go, even though they were not paying for it. Once my father objected, my grandfather would not go against his wishes and so would not pay for my college tuition. I have never understood this, as both my half-sister and step-brother got to go to college. Why did my father stop me from going to college? Just another one of those questions that never got answered!
During high school, I was made to work every summer vacation.
My first full-time job was in the meat department at the local Grand Union. I really preferred to work in an office environment, so when such an opportunity came along, I took it. My boss at the Grand Union was very upset that I was leaving and offered me a nice pay raise to stay. I was flattered that he wanted me to stay, but I really wanted to work in an office.
I took a cut in pay to work in the office but made it up within a short period of time. I was living with my Aunt Jennie by this time, so my life was going well, and I was happy. A woman who lived across the street also worked at the same company as I did, and she rode to and from work with me. Unfortunately, within six months that company went out of business. We both found new jobs in the next town and again traveled back and forth together.
###
We are serializing the memoir Kidnapped Twice: Then Betrayed and Abandoned,
by Mary E. Seaman and myself. It tells of the abuse she suffered as a child, primarily from her step-mother, and her partial recovery during the next half-century of her life.
My writing-coaching-editing site is http://writeyourbookwithme.com.
Saturday, March 7, 2015
Saturday, February 28, 2015
"Aunt Jennie..." from KIDNAPPED TWICE
AUNT JENNIE
I do not know why my Aunt Jennie was not a happy person. She was so good, yet no one ever gave her credit.
She took me in to care for me, as she did for my father and her grandchildren and great-grandchildren and my grandfather. She even did this for any person who needed a place to stay. She checked on her brothers and her sisters on a weekly basis, but I never heard any of them give Aunt Jennie a kind word
As I got older and Aunt Jennie was alone in the house, I would visit with her as much as my life would allow. She would be sitting on the south side of her porch, where the sun would shine on her and give her warmth on the chilly days. I find myself doing that now.
Aunt Jennie and I talked about a lot of things. She told me that she got custody of me when my mother and father divorced.
She said, “Don’t you remember that when something would happen at school, they would bring you here?” And they did!
I made the mistake of asking my father about this, and all hell broke loose. I still feel so bad that Aunt Jennie got in trouble with my father over this. I am trying to find out the facts now. All of them. Just so I can put these secrets to rest.
Why did I leave Aunt Jennie? My father came to tell me that Ann had changed, and they wanted me to come home.
I went home and put all my stuff in my closet. I went to work and got a call that my house was on fire, a fire that started in my closet.
The hospital let us move into the house they owned across the street.
My dog was tied up in the garage, and she barked all night. Sparky would sometimes break loose and go to Aunt Jennie’s house. One of these times in life, the good Lord is giving you a sign to make the right decision. People at work bought me some clothes, and I continued going to work. Three days after the fire, I came home from work. Ann was standing on the bottom of the stairs. She slapped me across my face, but I grabbed her by her neck with both of my hands and backed her against the wall, and I told her that if she ever touched me again, I would kill her.
Father came home and came upstairs to my locked room and told me to apologize to my mother. I screamed at him that she was not my mother. That was the first time I had ever disrespected my father.
I have so many questions and no answers! The strength I have had all my life seems to be gone. I’m tired. Why didn’t my father protect me? Why didn’t he let me live with Aunt Jennie or with my mother? Why? Why?
MORE ON PARENTS AND NOT-PARENTS
Aunt Jennie was speaking to someone; I do not remember to whom. She told this person that Ann’s mother beat me: Ann would drop me off at her mother’s house for me to clean there. When displeased with me, this woman would beat me with a wooden spoon. Concerning this, Aunt Jennie said to me, “You remember that, right, Mary?” I did not, until years later. It made me feel bad that I could not back up Aunt Jennie‘s story. I wonder– who had told Aunt Jennie?
As I was growing up, Ann would send me to Town Pharmacy to ask for and buy Trojans condoms.. I did not know what they were until much later. I’m hoping that the people in the pharmacy realized that I did not know what they were and that I was not buying them for my use.
For many years I had periods of excruciating pain on the left side of my face. The pain would be very bad at times, lasting a few days, even lasting weeks. Thinking that I had an infection in a tooth, I went to various dentists. Different dentists would pull some teeth each time.
Every time dentists would give me a shot of Novocain, it would only intensify this pain. I went to doctors. They thought I must be having bouts of neuralgia.
It was a terrible pain. The professionals were baffled.
I ended up with a dentist who said he would have to drill every tooth and scrape bone and cap all my teeth. That cost me $12,000, more than a year‘s pay. I borrowed money from the bank for each stage of this process.
After many years of this problem, my father just happened to mention that he had dropped me down a flight of stairs in the big house, when I was very small. He stated that I landed on the left side of my head. I said to him, “Dad, I think this information would have been important to all the dentists and doctors I have gone to!”
My father once wrote me a letter, asking me, “Where did the little girl go who loved her daddy?” I never answered.
I loved my father, but I also knew he was a weak man in so many ways: his drinking, his beating me, his knowledge about what Ann was doing to me, and yet his doing nothing. He never talked to me about things I needed to know!
My father would tell me that I was going to end up like my mother, leaving my child behind to pursue a singing career. Despite all his remarks about my voice and how I was going to be just like my mother, he called me one day and asked me to make a recording of songs for him. I did not know how to do that, and even if I did, I was past the singing thing. When I married Alan, my second husband, I sang “The Lord’s Prayer” at my wedding. My father was there, and that was the end of my public singing.
I think my father could not own up to his lack of taking care of me after he had gone through all the trouble of kidnapping me back from my mother, then just throwing me under the bus with Ann. How did he justify this to himself or me? Maybe that’s why we were never able to talk about anything important as I got older.
###
We are serializing the memoir by Mary E. Seaman and myself, KIDNAPPED TWICE: Then Betrayed and Abused, published by Outskirts Press and available in paperback and ebook versions from Outskirts Press and http://amazon.com and other on-line book sellers.
See also my site http://writeyourbookwithme.com.
"More Than Tutoring," Ch. 20, But...at What Cost
During my nearly ten years of tutoring, many problems arose for some of my students. It is not at all surprising that problems abound when you think of the barriers presented by not knowing our language, our laws, or our cultural expectations. Many of my lessons specifically addressed these very stressed-filled dilemmas for them, on a personal, not classroom, level.
My Chinese students had an extended support system, so seldom needed my help outside class; not so for many from various other cultures. Despite LVA’s advisement and rules for not getting involved in their personal lives, I often did. Most of my students became my friends; some of them, I expect, will be my friends for the rest of my life. It isn’t in me to let friends flounder when I have the means to help.
I, and most other tutors, mentored almost as much as we taught English. I’ve talked to doctors, nurses, dentists, pharmacists, school principals, teachers, lawyers, policeman, sheriffs, social workers, landlords, and butchers, bakers and candlestick-makers (okay, no candlestick-makers) on behalf of my students. I’ve advised on dress codes, manners, résumés, spousal abuse, and helped fill out more damned forms than I care to remember. I learned how to read electric meters so I could help a student pass his meter-reading test. I helped a dad write a letter to his son. Their problems were endless and often personal, and I helped guide them when they asked, regardless of the rules against personal involvement.
Over the years, I tutored students from every walk of life, from all educational and economic backgrounds, from all major religions, and from at least twenty different countries. What an education I got! Every tutor I’ve talked to agrees we learn more than our students do. As much as it may seem I’m blowing my own horn (I said “I” an awful lot in the preceding paragraphs), I’m not. I’m grateful for every moment, because every moment was a much-valued learning experience…. Imagine how empty my life would have been without knowing how to read an electric meter! It nearly killed me to leave.
###
We are serializing here Judy Axtell's But...at What Cost: A Skeptic's Memoir, published by Outskirts Press and available in paperback through Outskirts and Amazon and other on-line booksellers. I am proud to have been coach and editor for the book.
See also, my site http://writeyourbookwithme.com.
My Chinese students had an extended support system, so seldom needed my help outside class; not so for many from various other cultures. Despite LVA’s advisement and rules for not getting involved in their personal lives, I often did. Most of my students became my friends; some of them, I expect, will be my friends for the rest of my life. It isn’t in me to let friends flounder when I have the means to help.
I, and most other tutors, mentored almost as much as we taught English. I’ve talked to doctors, nurses, dentists, pharmacists, school principals, teachers, lawyers, policeman, sheriffs, social workers, landlords, and butchers, bakers and candlestick-makers (okay, no candlestick-makers) on behalf of my students. I’ve advised on dress codes, manners, résumés, spousal abuse, and helped fill out more damned forms than I care to remember. I learned how to read electric meters so I could help a student pass his meter-reading test. I helped a dad write a letter to his son. Their problems were endless and often personal, and I helped guide them when they asked, regardless of the rules against personal involvement.
Over the years, I tutored students from every walk of life, from all educational and economic backgrounds, from all major religions, and from at least twenty different countries. What an education I got! Every tutor I’ve talked to agrees we learn more than our students do. As much as it may seem I’m blowing my own horn (I said “I” an awful lot in the preceding paragraphs), I’m not. I’m grateful for every moment, because every moment was a much-valued learning experience…. Imagine how empty my life would have been without knowing how to read an electric meter! It nearly killed me to leave.
###
We are serializing here Judy Axtell's But...at What Cost: A Skeptic's Memoir, published by Outskirts Press and available in paperback through Outskirts and Amazon and other on-line booksellers. I am proud to have been coach and editor for the book.
See also, my site http://writeyourbookwithme.com.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
"Almost Raped...," from memoir KIDNAPPED TWICE
ALMOST RAPED
While I was still living at Aunt Jennie’s house, I started dating a boy from New York City. I don’t even remember his name or how I met him. His family had a summer home by the Lake, but not on my family’s property.
I was working at American Felt Company at that time, and the women there were very nice to me. This guy wanted me to meet him halfway between New York City and Cornwall, where I lived. I was shy and timid during those years. The women at work said, “No way! Tell him he has to come up here.”
He did travel to Cornwall, and he did seem like a very nice young man. One night, he came up from the City and told me he needed to pick something up from his family’s summer house. We pulled into their garage, and he said he would be right back. A few minutes later, he yelled for me to come upstairs from the garage. I did so, and when I entered the living room, he was lying naked on the couch and told me to sit on him. I told him, “No!”
He started grabbing me as I tried to get out through the door. He kept pushing me down, and he got me into a bedroom, at which point he told me to go ahead and scream, as no one would hear me. It was a fight. He was grabbing me and pulling me down, and I was kicking and punching to get back up. I guess I tired him out, because he finally let me go, and eventually he drove me home.
Because I was so upset when I got home, I told Aunt Jennie. She told my father. As it turned out, this guy’s uncle owned a bar and pizza place my father patronized. My father called the uncle, who called the father of the boy, at which time the father made the son write a letter to me stating how sorry he was and that he hoped that he would some day be lucky enough to marry a girl like me and hoped that his daughter would be a good girl like me. This was the only time I appreciated my father’s calling anybody on my behalf.
You think I would remember this guy’s name, but I don’t. Perhaps it is just as well I do not.
DEAD MAN IN CAR
While I was living with Aunt Jennie, I found a man in his car who had shot himself in the mouth, committing suicide.
I was taking a ride up into the mountains, which I did a lot before I went to work on the late shift. The man had parked his car just off to the side of the road, so it was not easy to miss. I approached it cautiously and was shocked by what I saw.
Once I knew what I had seen, I drove to the Police Department as quickly as possible, shaking all the way. I walked in and told them what I had found and then ran out to get to work. They were running after me to get more information, but they let me go, as they knew who I was and could come to my place of work if they needed more information. I saw that dead man in my imagination for years afterwards. Even now, if I see a car parked on the edge of the road and it does not seem right to me, I call 911 instead of walking up and looking into the car.
MORE ABOUT ANN AND ME
Before I ran away from home, when I lived with my father and Ann, my stepmother, almost every day I had to wash and dry clothes. I would fold or hang them all, and Ann would put them away. When it came to my room, Ann would wait until I was asleep, come into my room, put the lights on, and wake me up! If I acted as if I were still sleeping, she would grab the back of my hair and lift me up to make sure I was awake.
Sometimes I try to think of something good I could say about my stepmother. I cannot.
Every night at bedtime, we would be expected to kiss my father and Ann good night. I would rather have gotten a beating than kiss either of them. I remember going to school with two black eyes. They made me wear dark glasses and say that I had poison ivy in my eyes. The last thing I wanted to do was to kiss either of them.
This attitude rolled over to my adult life. Some of my in-laws seem to hug and kiss everyone within reach. It seems that they could hate a person and still hug and kiss that person. I used to not hug and kiss my closest friends, unless I had to. I’ve gotten a little better at it, but not much. When I do have a genuine affection for somebody, then we do hug and kiss.
THE FIRE
Approximately a year after Aunt Jennie took me in, my father came to Aunt Jennie’s house and told us that Ann had changed and that I should come home. Aunt Jennie started crying and told me not to go!
That day, I moved everything to my closet at my father and Ann’s house. The next day I received a telephone call from Ann, saying the house was on fire. When all was said and done, the fire started in my closet. Ann had been going through my things with her cigarette hanging out of her mouth and the fire started! I lost everything but the clothes on my back, my car, and my dog. My father and Ann had their house redone, making it better than it had been. My losses were not repaid.
Sometimes, when I hear on the news of a child who has killed a parent, I think I wish that I had mustered the courage to kill Ann.
I think about Ann’s going through my things that first day after I had moved back home from Aunt Jennie’s house, because my father said that Ann had changed. Ann had her cigarette hanging out of her mouth, which caused that fire in my closet. Oh yes, Dad, she really had changed!
It is hard for me to justify or even understand the many stupid decisions in my life. Certainly, childhood abuse played a role.
I remember a special Saturday afternoon at Aunt Jennie’s house. Aunt Jennie was downstairs, and I was upstairs. All of a sudden, Aunt Jennie yelled to me, “Mary, Ann just pulled up front.” I ran to the bathroom and threw up. That never happened before or since.
###
We are serializing on my blog this memoir, Kidnapped Twice, by Mary E. Seaman and me. It was published by Outskirts Press, and is available in paperback and ebook formats from amazon.com and other on-line booksellers.
See also my site http://writeyourbookwithme.com.
While I was still living at Aunt Jennie’s house, I started dating a boy from New York City. I don’t even remember his name or how I met him. His family had a summer home by the Lake, but not on my family’s property.
I was working at American Felt Company at that time, and the women there were very nice to me. This guy wanted me to meet him halfway between New York City and Cornwall, where I lived. I was shy and timid during those years. The women at work said, “No way! Tell him he has to come up here.”
He did travel to Cornwall, and he did seem like a very nice young man. One night, he came up from the City and told me he needed to pick something up from his family’s summer house. We pulled into their garage, and he said he would be right back. A few minutes later, he yelled for me to come upstairs from the garage. I did so, and when I entered the living room, he was lying naked on the couch and told me to sit on him. I told him, “No!”
He started grabbing me as I tried to get out through the door. He kept pushing me down, and he got me into a bedroom, at which point he told me to go ahead and scream, as no one would hear me. It was a fight. He was grabbing me and pulling me down, and I was kicking and punching to get back up. I guess I tired him out, because he finally let me go, and eventually he drove me home.
Because I was so upset when I got home, I told Aunt Jennie. She told my father. As it turned out, this guy’s uncle owned a bar and pizza place my father patronized. My father called the uncle, who called the father of the boy, at which time the father made the son write a letter to me stating how sorry he was and that he hoped that he would some day be lucky enough to marry a girl like me and hoped that his daughter would be a good girl like me. This was the only time I appreciated my father’s calling anybody on my behalf.
You think I would remember this guy’s name, but I don’t. Perhaps it is just as well I do not.
DEAD MAN IN CAR
While I was living with Aunt Jennie, I found a man in his car who had shot himself in the mouth, committing suicide.
I was taking a ride up into the mountains, which I did a lot before I went to work on the late shift. The man had parked his car just off to the side of the road, so it was not easy to miss. I approached it cautiously and was shocked by what I saw.
Once I knew what I had seen, I drove to the Police Department as quickly as possible, shaking all the way. I walked in and told them what I had found and then ran out to get to work. They were running after me to get more information, but they let me go, as they knew who I was and could come to my place of work if they needed more information. I saw that dead man in my imagination for years afterwards. Even now, if I see a car parked on the edge of the road and it does not seem right to me, I call 911 instead of walking up and looking into the car.
MORE ABOUT ANN AND ME
Before I ran away from home, when I lived with my father and Ann, my stepmother, almost every day I had to wash and dry clothes. I would fold or hang them all, and Ann would put them away. When it came to my room, Ann would wait until I was asleep, come into my room, put the lights on, and wake me up! If I acted as if I were still sleeping, she would grab the back of my hair and lift me up to make sure I was awake.
Sometimes I try to think of something good I could say about my stepmother. I cannot.
Every night at bedtime, we would be expected to kiss my father and Ann good night. I would rather have gotten a beating than kiss either of them. I remember going to school with two black eyes. They made me wear dark glasses and say that I had poison ivy in my eyes. The last thing I wanted to do was to kiss either of them.
This attitude rolled over to my adult life. Some of my in-laws seem to hug and kiss everyone within reach. It seems that they could hate a person and still hug and kiss that person. I used to not hug and kiss my closest friends, unless I had to. I’ve gotten a little better at it, but not much. When I do have a genuine affection for somebody, then we do hug and kiss.
THE FIRE
Approximately a year after Aunt Jennie took me in, my father came to Aunt Jennie’s house and told us that Ann had changed and that I should come home. Aunt Jennie started crying and told me not to go!
That day, I moved everything to my closet at my father and Ann’s house. The next day I received a telephone call from Ann, saying the house was on fire. When all was said and done, the fire started in my closet. Ann had been going through my things with her cigarette hanging out of her mouth and the fire started! I lost everything but the clothes on my back, my car, and my dog. My father and Ann had their house redone, making it better than it had been. My losses were not repaid.
Sometimes, when I hear on the news of a child who has killed a parent, I think I wish that I had mustered the courage to kill Ann.
I think about Ann’s going through my things that first day after I had moved back home from Aunt Jennie’s house, because my father said that Ann had changed. Ann had her cigarette hanging out of her mouth, which caused that fire in my closet. Oh yes, Dad, she really had changed!
It is hard for me to justify or even understand the many stupid decisions in my life. Certainly, childhood abuse played a role.
I remember a special Saturday afternoon at Aunt Jennie’s house. Aunt Jennie was downstairs, and I was upstairs. All of a sudden, Aunt Jennie yelled to me, “Mary, Ann just pulled up front.” I ran to the bathroom and threw up. That never happened before or since.
###
We are serializing on my blog this memoir, Kidnapped Twice, by Mary E. Seaman and me. It was published by Outskirts Press, and is available in paperback and ebook formats from amazon.com and other on-line booksellers.
See also my site http://writeyourbookwithme.com.
"They Make Me a Person," Ch. 19, memoir BUT...AT WHAT COST
I read an autobiography by Gertrude Bell a while back. She was recounting her experiences with the people of the Middle East during the late eighteen hundreds. As soon as I read the line “they make me a person,” I knew it captured the essence of what my Chinese students did for me. They made me a person.
I’d heard their culture reveres teachers and old people, but I’d never seen it in action – nor did it play out as I expected. I expected them to be appreciative and respectful and maybe bow a lot, but I didn’t know a little respect would make me feel so darned happy. I have been many things to many people: a mother, a daughter, a grandmother, an in-law, a businesswoman, a volunteer, and a friend – fulfilling roles all, but none of those roles boosted my ego quite as much as Chinese graciousness did.
I didn’t know why it was happening; I only knew I looked forward to a session with these young Chinese students as much as I look forward to a visit from the grandchildren, or a spring morning in the garden, or Christmas. I was infatuated with these people, but I didn’t know why.
Now, I’m guessing we older Americans just aren’t used to receiving so much positive attention from younger people. That is not to say that young Americans or my other students from other countries don’t respect me; they do. But, there is a difference. Excepting family gatherings, genuine social interaction between generations is very rare in Western cultures.
Granted, my Asian students were very grateful for the service I provided, and the Chinese equivalent of Miss Manners must demand they show their appreciation. However, they did not need to make me an honored guest at their weddings, bring me presents on Mother’s Day, or share their families’ New Year feasts with me.
I guess Chen said it best. He had treated me to a day in NYC’s Chinatown, and while we were eating dinner I commented that few American men of his age (30) would choose to spend so much time with a person twice his age. He laughed and said, “We like old people.”
When I told Connie of my infatuation with all this attention she said, “Well, they like you.” Yes, they do, but Randy and Sue and their friends like me too (I think), but I don’t get invited to their parties, nor do I expect to be. I attend Beth and Andrew’s parties, but they have little choice because I stay in their home when I visit. When I’m there I, too, get invited to parties they’re invited to, but I don’t think it’s because anyone wants me there; it seems more a courtesy.
The generations just don’t mix much in America. In my memory, they never have… at least not by choice, or often, or for very long. That’s too bad. I like being “a person.”
###
We are serializing Judy Axtell's blog here. Her book was published by Outskirts Press, and is available from on-line booksellers, including amazon.com. I am proud to have served as coach and editor.
See also my site, http://writeyourbookwithme.com.
I’d heard their culture reveres teachers and old people, but I’d never seen it in action – nor did it play out as I expected. I expected them to be appreciative and respectful and maybe bow a lot, but I didn’t know a little respect would make me feel so darned happy. I have been many things to many people: a mother, a daughter, a grandmother, an in-law, a businesswoman, a volunteer, and a friend – fulfilling roles all, but none of those roles boosted my ego quite as much as Chinese graciousness did.
I didn’t know why it was happening; I only knew I looked forward to a session with these young Chinese students as much as I look forward to a visit from the grandchildren, or a spring morning in the garden, or Christmas. I was infatuated with these people, but I didn’t know why.
Now, I’m guessing we older Americans just aren’t used to receiving so much positive attention from younger people. That is not to say that young Americans or my other students from other countries don’t respect me; they do. But, there is a difference. Excepting family gatherings, genuine social interaction between generations is very rare in Western cultures.
Granted, my Asian students were very grateful for the service I provided, and the Chinese equivalent of Miss Manners must demand they show their appreciation. However, they did not need to make me an honored guest at their weddings, bring me presents on Mother’s Day, or share their families’ New Year feasts with me.
I guess Chen said it best. He had treated me to a day in NYC’s Chinatown, and while we were eating dinner I commented that few American men of his age (30) would choose to spend so much time with a person twice his age. He laughed and said, “We like old people.”
When I told Connie of my infatuation with all this attention she said, “Well, they like you.” Yes, they do, but Randy and Sue and their friends like me too (I think), but I don’t get invited to their parties, nor do I expect to be. I attend Beth and Andrew’s parties, but they have little choice because I stay in their home when I visit. When I’m there I, too, get invited to parties they’re invited to, but I don’t think it’s because anyone wants me there; it seems more a courtesy.
The generations just don’t mix much in America. In my memory, they never have… at least not by choice, or often, or for very long. That’s too bad. I like being “a person.”
###
We are serializing Judy Axtell's blog here. Her book was published by Outskirts Press, and is available from on-line booksellers, including amazon.com. I am proud to have served as coach and editor.
See also my site, http://writeyourbookwithme.com.
Saturday, February 14, 2015
School Days, Continued, from KIDNAPPED TWICE
SPORTS
I was always made to play sports with Norman, Ann’s son, my step-brother. When we played baseball, he wanted to be the pitcher, I had to be the catcher. When he wanted to play basketball, I had to play also. In fact, I had to play basketball almost every night, after I cleaned up from supper.
At school they had a New York State basketball contest for foul-shooting ability. I won by making all 25 of my 25 attempts. I was given a nice trophy, which made Norman’s mother very mad. I never saw that trophy again!
DADDY’S GIRL– KEEP AWAY!
While I was in high school, my father warned some of the boys to keep away from me. I don’t know how many boys my father called, but I do know of two for sure.
One was a boy who lived right next to school and would go home for lunch. I would have my lunch and then walk back to school with him. We were friends, and that was all. We had great conversations, but never even held hands. We were just friends. My father told him to keep away from me.
When we have had class reunions, he has waited for me to show up. The last one I attended, we all met for a boat ride up the Hudson River, and, as usual, he and I sat and talked throughout the trip.
The incident with the second boy occurred when I was going into my senior year in high school. Every day, everybody would stand around talking. I noticed a nice-looking guy, and I guess he noticed me. After he graduated, he sent me a letter in which he said he would like to take me to a movie. My father called him and his parents and told them never to contact me again. Odd.
No wonder everyone from my high school days remembers me!
AMMONIA
One of Ann’s favorite things to do was to hide behind the door when I would open the kitchen door to enter the house. She would grab the back of my hair and drag me around the house. I still remember the hurtful and disgusting words she would call me!
I was responsible for the cleaning of the house, which would take some of my weekday evenings and pretty much the entire weekend.
On one of those hair-pulling and -dragging occasions, she had a bucket of water and ammonia. She pushed my face into the bucket, at which time I passed out. From that point on, I had to clean everything with ammonia.
REPORT CARDS
I was the student who took around the attendance lists to the classrooms every morning. I would go to the main office to pick up the lists and start delivering them. I was a fairly good student in most of my classes, but my grades were never good enough for my father and Ann. If I got a B+, it should have been an A. If I got an A, it should have been an A+. This was even though I never had much time left for homework at home.
One day, as I was waiting for the attendance list, I noticed a pile of new, blank report cards. I took one and started making out my own report card. For a time it relieved my stress level at report card time, until I put myself on the honor roll by mistake! Well, all hell broke loose, and I was punished hard for that, but I did deserve it. This time they really did have something to punish me for. I had to work twice as hard to bring my grades back up, and deal with the madness at home.
It has taken me years to realize that some of my teachers and principals were trying to watch over me. The Principal would have me baby-sit his children. The English teacher, Mr. Bouton, would ask me every day to stay after class and erase the chalk board. Mr. Krug shocked me one day, as I always sat in the front row. He said, “Has everyone noticed what beautiful blue eyes Mary has?” I wanted to crawl under my desk.
SINGING AND MRS. CALLAHAN
One day in high school we were having music class. Mrs. Callahan was the substitute teacher that day. She was playing the piano and asked me to sing while she played. I don’t know why it all came out sounding so good that day, because I normally was scared to death singing in front of anyone. When we were finished, she stood up and said to the class, “Take a good look at Mary now because she’s going to really be somebody.” As you will read here, I never became that somebody.
After I got out of school, most people who were in my life never knew that I could sing.
RUNNING AWAY FROM HOME
The day I left home, intending the departure to be forever, I was 16, just recently graduated from high school. I had a job that was on the second shift, so I waited for Ann and her sister to leave the house to do their daily shopping. I put what I could into a paper bag and left. I went to the town park, as I had every intention of sleeping in a small shed the town had on its property.
My cousins were at the park, and I told them what I was doing. They went to Aunt Jennie and came back to tell me to go to Aunt Jennie’s house. That day I started living with Aunt Jennie, and for the first time since I had been with my grandmother, I was not afraid. I was happy!
MY REAL MOTHER VISITS
In contrast, I remember my real mother, Elaine, coming to visit me while I was living with Aunt Jennie. Aunt Jennie had told me that she always liked my real mother. My mother and I took a walk. I was much taller than she was. She told me that I had a cleft chin, but I had no idea what that was back then. She was blonde and pretty. That’s all I remember, except that she gave me a pearl ring, which I wore for many years.
Ann angrily accused my father of giving me that ring. She carried on about that ring for a long time.
###
We are serializing in this blog the memoir KIDNAPPED TWICE; Then Betrayed and Abused, by Mary E. Seaman and myself. It tells of the long-lasting effects of child abuse by Mary's step-mother and father. It also describes her efforts to help her own step-daughter, and it shows her love of all animals. The book is available in paperback and ebook formats from amazon.com and other online book sellers.
My other site is http://writeyourbookwithme.com.
I was always made to play sports with Norman, Ann’s son, my step-brother. When we played baseball, he wanted to be the pitcher, I had to be the catcher. When he wanted to play basketball, I had to play also. In fact, I had to play basketball almost every night, after I cleaned up from supper.
At school they had a New York State basketball contest for foul-shooting ability. I won by making all 25 of my 25 attempts. I was given a nice trophy, which made Norman’s mother very mad. I never saw that trophy again!
DADDY’S GIRL– KEEP AWAY!
While I was in high school, my father warned some of the boys to keep away from me. I don’t know how many boys my father called, but I do know of two for sure.
One was a boy who lived right next to school and would go home for lunch. I would have my lunch and then walk back to school with him. We were friends, and that was all. We had great conversations, but never even held hands. We were just friends. My father told him to keep away from me.
When we have had class reunions, he has waited for me to show up. The last one I attended, we all met for a boat ride up the Hudson River, and, as usual, he and I sat and talked throughout the trip.
The incident with the second boy occurred when I was going into my senior year in high school. Every day, everybody would stand around talking. I noticed a nice-looking guy, and I guess he noticed me. After he graduated, he sent me a letter in which he said he would like to take me to a movie. My father called him and his parents and told them never to contact me again. Odd.
No wonder everyone from my high school days remembers me!
AMMONIA
One of Ann’s favorite things to do was to hide behind the door when I would open the kitchen door to enter the house. She would grab the back of my hair and drag me around the house. I still remember the hurtful and disgusting words she would call me!
I was responsible for the cleaning of the house, which would take some of my weekday evenings and pretty much the entire weekend.
On one of those hair-pulling and -dragging occasions, she had a bucket of water and ammonia. She pushed my face into the bucket, at which time I passed out. From that point on, I had to clean everything with ammonia.
REPORT CARDS
I was the student who took around the attendance lists to the classrooms every morning. I would go to the main office to pick up the lists and start delivering them. I was a fairly good student in most of my classes, but my grades were never good enough for my father and Ann. If I got a B+, it should have been an A. If I got an A, it should have been an A+. This was even though I never had much time left for homework at home.
One day, as I was waiting for the attendance list, I noticed a pile of new, blank report cards. I took one and started making out my own report card. For a time it relieved my stress level at report card time, until I put myself on the honor roll by mistake! Well, all hell broke loose, and I was punished hard for that, but I did deserve it. This time they really did have something to punish me for. I had to work twice as hard to bring my grades back up, and deal with the madness at home.
It has taken me years to realize that some of my teachers and principals were trying to watch over me. The Principal would have me baby-sit his children. The English teacher, Mr. Bouton, would ask me every day to stay after class and erase the chalk board. Mr. Krug shocked me one day, as I always sat in the front row. He said, “Has everyone noticed what beautiful blue eyes Mary has?” I wanted to crawl under my desk.
SINGING AND MRS. CALLAHAN
One day in high school we were having music class. Mrs. Callahan was the substitute teacher that day. She was playing the piano and asked me to sing while she played. I don’t know why it all came out sounding so good that day, because I normally was scared to death singing in front of anyone. When we were finished, she stood up and said to the class, “Take a good look at Mary now because she’s going to really be somebody.” As you will read here, I never became that somebody.
After I got out of school, most people who were in my life never knew that I could sing.
RUNNING AWAY FROM HOME
The day I left home, intending the departure to be forever, I was 16, just recently graduated from high school. I had a job that was on the second shift, so I waited for Ann and her sister to leave the house to do their daily shopping. I put what I could into a paper bag and left. I went to the town park, as I had every intention of sleeping in a small shed the town had on its property.
My cousins were at the park, and I told them what I was doing. They went to Aunt Jennie and came back to tell me to go to Aunt Jennie’s house. That day I started living with Aunt Jennie, and for the first time since I had been with my grandmother, I was not afraid. I was happy!
MY REAL MOTHER VISITS
In contrast, I remember my real mother, Elaine, coming to visit me while I was living with Aunt Jennie. Aunt Jennie had told me that she always liked my real mother. My mother and I took a walk. I was much taller than she was. She told me that I had a cleft chin, but I had no idea what that was back then. She was blonde and pretty. That’s all I remember, except that she gave me a pearl ring, which I wore for many years.
Ann angrily accused my father of giving me that ring. She carried on about that ring for a long time.
###
We are serializing in this blog the memoir KIDNAPPED TWICE; Then Betrayed and Abused, by Mary E. Seaman and myself. It tells of the long-lasting effects of child abuse by Mary's step-mother and father. It also describes her efforts to help her own step-daughter, and it shows her love of all animals. The book is available in paperback and ebook formats from amazon.com and other online book sellers.
My other site is http://writeyourbookwithme.com.
"The Joys of Tutoring," Ch. 18, BUT...AT WHAT COST
While nothing can quite compare to being a gramma (the kids’ name for me), tutoring came close. I liked wallpapering and it was a worthy challenge, but tutoring was more personally satisfying. Prior to joining Literacy Volunteers of America (LVA), most of my accomplishments had been physical ones. Getting old sucks. Setting up staging in a stair-well and climbing around like a mountain goat while wall papering were very physical. I was far from being a great athlete, but I had coached Little League softball for many years, played competitive softball and volleyball well into my fifties, and played tennis until I ruptured my Achilles tendon playing tennis when I was 59. I couldn’t sing anymore, at least not as well as I wanted to. I couldn’t play sports anymore, at least not competitively. I didn’t want to hang wallpaper anymore because it was no fun doing it alone once Amy had moved to Georgia, and after the Achilles injury it was too physically demanding except for small jobs. As I said, “Getting old sucks.”
Tutoring saved me from entering a vegetative state. My brain still worked, so that’s the direction I headed. My long-time friend, Al Bojman, and his mother, Joan, had been after me for years to give it a try. She loved it, thought I would be good at it, and used Al as her recruiter.
Enter assignment number one: Ying was a returnee to the program. She had been in the States for two years and was living with and working for her brother in a local Chinese restaurant. She worked from eleven a.m. until ten p.m. six days a week, so we arranged to meet from nine to ten-thirty on Tuesday and Friday mornings. We got off to a slow start. I was inexperienced, and she was shy and entirely too polite. All that smiling and nodding had me completely fooled into thinking she was learning. Not!
Somewhere in the middle of our third session she allowed her eyes to glaze over. A definite breakthrough. I adjusted my technique and we got on track. Two sessions after we achieved a comfort zone, students number two and three arrived on the scene. They walked in the LVA room with Ying, said “Hi” and sat down.
Ying said, “You teach, okay?”
Well, I had no idea if it was okay or not, but they were sitting there smiling, waiting for me to say something. I turned to the new arrivals and said, “My name is Judy.” I got a smile and a nod from each. I tried again, “You are?” Nothing. “Your name is?” Nothing – no waiting for glazed eyes with these two.
Oh, my, I thought as my eyes glazed over, too. Fortunately, Ying noticed my dilemma and jumped in for the introductions. Lan knew a few waitress-related words, but Lin’s English vocabulary started and ended with “Hi.”
I’d been through many, many hours of training, but I was not really prepared for such low-level students. Ying was a level two; these were zeroes. I picked up my bag, thanking the language Gods I’d brought it that day, grabbed a few props to demonstrate actions and got to work. “Put the spoon in the cup. Put the cup on the table.”
I was immediately hooked. I simply LOVED working with lower-level students… and there was no shortage of them in Middletown’s Chinese restaurants. They just kept coming and coming. It got so I couldn’t buy Chinese food in Middletown; someone in every place that sold Chinese seemed to know who I was and wouldn’t take my money. I only took advantage once in a while. “You come eat Mother’s Day.”
“Okay.” Such a gracious people.
The best side-effect of my tutoring years was learning about cultural influences. My attention to culture was inspired both by my training, which emphasized not offending – as if we were a bunch of American chauvinists, and my up-close, personal observations of my students. The first few years, I was bathed primarily in Eastern Patterns of Culture because I worked almost exclusively with Chinese students. Afterwards, my horizons expanded to include other Eastern, Middle Eastern, and South American countries. My exposures were very revealing and in many ways confirmed my sociological beliefs and subsequent political evolution.
###
We are serializing on my blog Judy Axtell's
BUT...AT WHAT COST: A Skeptics Memoir, available in paperback format from amazon.com and other online book sellers. This chapter foreshadows her transition from liberal to conservative. I am proud to have coached Judy and to have edited the book.
My other site is http://writeyourbookwithme.com.
Tutoring saved me from entering a vegetative state. My brain still worked, so that’s the direction I headed. My long-time friend, Al Bojman, and his mother, Joan, had been after me for years to give it a try. She loved it, thought I would be good at it, and used Al as her recruiter.
Enter assignment number one: Ying was a returnee to the program. She had been in the States for two years and was living with and working for her brother in a local Chinese restaurant. She worked from eleven a.m. until ten p.m. six days a week, so we arranged to meet from nine to ten-thirty on Tuesday and Friday mornings. We got off to a slow start. I was inexperienced, and she was shy and entirely too polite. All that smiling and nodding had me completely fooled into thinking she was learning. Not!
Somewhere in the middle of our third session she allowed her eyes to glaze over. A definite breakthrough. I adjusted my technique and we got on track. Two sessions after we achieved a comfort zone, students number two and three arrived on the scene. They walked in the LVA room with Ying, said “Hi” and sat down.
Ying said, “You teach, okay?”
Well, I had no idea if it was okay or not, but they were sitting there smiling, waiting for me to say something. I turned to the new arrivals and said, “My name is Judy.” I got a smile and a nod from each. I tried again, “You are?” Nothing. “Your name is?” Nothing – no waiting for glazed eyes with these two.
Oh, my, I thought as my eyes glazed over, too. Fortunately, Ying noticed my dilemma and jumped in for the introductions. Lan knew a few waitress-related words, but Lin’s English vocabulary started and ended with “Hi.”
I’d been through many, many hours of training, but I was not really prepared for such low-level students. Ying was a level two; these were zeroes. I picked up my bag, thanking the language Gods I’d brought it that day, grabbed a few props to demonstrate actions and got to work. “Put the spoon in the cup. Put the cup on the table.”
I was immediately hooked. I simply LOVED working with lower-level students… and there was no shortage of them in Middletown’s Chinese restaurants. They just kept coming and coming. It got so I couldn’t buy Chinese food in Middletown; someone in every place that sold Chinese seemed to know who I was and wouldn’t take my money. I only took advantage once in a while. “You come eat Mother’s Day.”
“Okay.” Such a gracious people.
The best side-effect of my tutoring years was learning about cultural influences. My attention to culture was inspired both by my training, which emphasized not offending – as if we were a bunch of American chauvinists, and my up-close, personal observations of my students. The first few years, I was bathed primarily in Eastern Patterns of Culture because I worked almost exclusively with Chinese students. Afterwards, my horizons expanded to include other Eastern, Middle Eastern, and South American countries. My exposures were very revealing and in many ways confirmed my sociological beliefs and subsequent political evolution.
###
We are serializing on my blog Judy Axtell's
BUT...AT WHAT COST: A Skeptics Memoir, available in paperback format from amazon.com and other online book sellers. This chapter foreshadows her transition from liberal to conservative. I am proud to have coached Judy and to have edited the book.
My other site is http://writeyourbookwithme.com.
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