Heaven Is Pink
by Molly Ann Hansen
_
for "Mickey." My confidant, my friend, but mostly my wonderful big brother. Together, We persevered.
When I was little, very little, I found myself praying a rosary by the bedside. I knew this much: For the big bead you said an Our Father. For the 10 little ones, you said a Hail Mary for each. And you did this all the way around the circle until you had completed one revolution; one Our Father for every 10 Hail Mary's. I knew these two prayers by heart as did every good Catholic child who attended private Catholic school. I also knew God was the only one who could help me. There was no one else in the world I could rely on. Not my parents, my brother, my cousins, my best little girlfriend, my school teacher...no one. I was utterly alone, save one...God.
So I dropped to my knees and begged God for help and protection. My paternal grandfather had been molesting me for some time. He had escalated his attack as he groomed me using a lengthy process and I had a deep sense of impending doom. I had been deceived into believing that if any one knew, most especially my parents, I would be in so much trouble and my parents would be very mad. It was a secret I had to keep. A secret between me and him.
for "Mickey." My confidant, my friend, but mostly my wonderful big brother. Together, We persevered.
When I was little, very little, I found myself praying a rosary by the bedside. I knew this much: For the big bead you said an Our Father. For the 10 little ones, you said a Hail Mary for each. And you did this all the way around the circle until you had completed one revolution; one Our Father for every 10 Hail Mary's. I knew these two prayers by heart as did every good Catholic child who attended private Catholic school. I also knew God was the only one who could help me. There was no one else in the world I could rely on. Not my parents, my brother, my cousins, my best little girlfriend, my school teacher...no one. I was utterly alone, save one...God.
So I dropped to my knees and begged God for help and protection. My paternal grandfather had been molesting me for some time. He had escalated his attack as he groomed me using a lengthy process and I had a deep sense of impending doom. I had been deceived into believing that if any one knew, most especially my parents, I would be in so much trouble and my parents would be very mad. It was a secret I had to keep. A secret between me and him.
The Angels Come to Rescue Me.
_I have a vague recollection
of standing there by the side of my grandparent's bed with not a stitch
of clothing. He laid me down. I remember a brief image of his face
just above mine as I lay on my back. He was on top of me. Then, I was
raised up. I was pulled out of my body. My very soul left its shell.
I felt light. There was no fear. Within an instant two ethereal beings took my hands and rushed me up and up and up where we eventually stopped and floated. Everything was the most beautiful shade of pink. It varied in tone and deepness but it was all pink. My favorite color. The very air was pink. I looked to my left to see who was holding my hand. It was an angel, and it made sense to me that it would be.
And it was gloriously beautiful. The face was not well defined. There was no discernable chin, cheek bones, or facial structure of any kind. The eyes were solid black and it seemed I could look into them deeply and go forever. There was a slight impression where a nose and mouth might be. As I looked at it, it looked at me. It did not seem to have a body shape but more of what appeared to be a pink flowing robe where a body would be. It transmuted only love.
I turned to my right to see who was on the other side, I saw the exact same thing. Then together, the three of us turned our heads downward. Although I was what felt like miles away, there, just 20 or so feet below was the bed. I saw my arms and legs sticking out from beneath my grandfather's body which covered over the top of mine, and I saw his backside, but I had no feelings of fear. I felt warm, safe, loved and secured in my soft pink place.
I was untouched by evil. Who I really was on earth, that very soul that is Jenny, was tucked away in a pink paradise. I remember no pain, no trauma, no fear, no trembling of any kind. My only memory is deep, abiding, constant love in its purest form. I wish I had more words to accurately describe it. What I have written here does not do justice to what I actually felt and saw and experienced. My memory is untainted by that cruel act, and my body and mind lack any memory of it.
God took me to the safest place He knew of and entrusted me to his angels. Perhaps my experience is colored by the eyes of innocence, And yes, my favorite color was (and still is) pink, but God knew what I needed to see in order to feel comfortable and secure. He allowed me to experience heaven in a way that made complete and utter sense to me.
I think without this experience, I would have been destroyed. The horribleness of what I would have had to endure most assuredly would have meant my demise and death before God's appointed time. My whole life would have taken a much different path leading me down a very destructive road of inward hatred and self degradation. I would have lost my will to fight to keep myself, my very mind, intact. Because of this experience, I remained strong.
However, my life was not completely unmarred. I had struggles and pain and suffering. There was mental anguish, angst and anxiety. My bouts of depression have nearly, at times, overcome me. But something in my soul always stirred and rose to the challenge and I fought for a good life, facing down bad memories and seeking victory over the enemy. You see, the evil one may have won my grandfather's loyalty and commitment to him through egregious sin, but I would not give him MY allegiance and the Lord saw fit to show me that I didn't have to walk that same road of degradation and self-destruction.
I felt light. There was no fear. Within an instant two ethereal beings took my hands and rushed me up and up and up where we eventually stopped and floated. Everything was the most beautiful shade of pink. It varied in tone and deepness but it was all pink. My favorite color. The very air was pink. I looked to my left to see who was holding my hand. It was an angel, and it made sense to me that it would be.
And it was gloriously beautiful. The face was not well defined. There was no discernable chin, cheek bones, or facial structure of any kind. The eyes were solid black and it seemed I could look into them deeply and go forever. There was a slight impression where a nose and mouth might be. As I looked at it, it looked at me. It did not seem to have a body shape but more of what appeared to be a pink flowing robe where a body would be. It transmuted only love.
I turned to my right to see who was on the other side, I saw the exact same thing. Then together, the three of us turned our heads downward. Although I was what felt like miles away, there, just 20 or so feet below was the bed. I saw my arms and legs sticking out from beneath my grandfather's body which covered over the top of mine, and I saw his backside, but I had no feelings of fear. I felt warm, safe, loved and secured in my soft pink place.
I was untouched by evil. Who I really was on earth, that very soul that is Jenny, was tucked away in a pink paradise. I remember no pain, no trauma, no fear, no trembling of any kind. My only memory is deep, abiding, constant love in its purest form. I wish I had more words to accurately describe it. What I have written here does not do justice to what I actually felt and saw and experienced. My memory is untainted by that cruel act, and my body and mind lack any memory of it.
God took me to the safest place He knew of and entrusted me to his angels. Perhaps my experience is colored by the eyes of innocence, And yes, my favorite color was (and still is) pink, but God knew what I needed to see in order to feel comfortable and secure. He allowed me to experience heaven in a way that made complete and utter sense to me.
I think without this experience, I would have been destroyed. The horribleness of what I would have had to endure most assuredly would have meant my demise and death before God's appointed time. My whole life would have taken a much different path leading me down a very destructive road of inward hatred and self degradation. I would have lost my will to fight to keep myself, my very mind, intact. Because of this experience, I remained strong.
However, my life was not completely unmarred. I had struggles and pain and suffering. There was mental anguish, angst and anxiety. My bouts of depression have nearly, at times, overcome me. But something in my soul always stirred and rose to the challenge and I fought for a good life, facing down bad memories and seeking victory over the enemy. You see, the evil one may have won my grandfather's loyalty and commitment to him through egregious sin, but I would not give him MY allegiance and the Lord saw fit to show me that I didn't have to walk that same road of degradation and self-destruction.
My Brother Spills the Beans.
_Sometime after my visit to
my edenic pink oasis, my brother and I were sitting at the kitchen table
in our green house located in the bay area. My mom was talking to us.
She began an introduction that day to sex and our bodies. What a
brave and practical mom she was. But, she had no clue she had just
stepped into a land mine and our entire family was about to be rocked by
a vicious explosion.
Now my brother, I distinctly remember, had been present and viewed some of the incest that had been perpetrated against me. Why? For the simple fact that Frank (my grandfather) was too damn lazy to get rid of him and just plain didn't care what he saw. He just drug him along into his sickness and twisted world coating his soul with perversity. Other times, my brother was peaking through cracks in the door to my grandparents bedroom, or looking down from the upstairs banister into the living room of our old green house. He had a deep sense that something was wrong. However; he was clearly told the same propaganda I was: "You can't tell or your parents will be mad. It's a secret." And neither one of us wanted to get in the kind of trouble we thought we'd be in for saying anything.
Now my brother and I never discussed what was transpiring not even when we were alone in the bedroom playing. We didn't whisper; there were no looks that passed between us. We were eerily and stonily silent, steadfast in our faithfulness to the grandfather we loved and admired.
So my mom was chatting with us while she washed dishes telling us that no one should touch us in our private parts and clearly defining what private parts meant. I said nothing. I didn't dare. But my brother, who was the more quiet and less rambunctious of the two of us said as clear as day, "But Grandad does that to Molly."
My mom dropped something and it clattered. I whacked my brother on the arm terrified and said, "Mickey, you aren't supposed to tell!" My mom began a series of questions that blurred together for me. It was so ingrained in me not to talk about it. She was crying and I didn't understand why. She said she believed it was true and that it was ok, we weren't in trouble. We were sent to our room to play.
My parents didn't know how bad it was or the extent to which both I and my brother had been accosted and assaulted; my brother by proxy through me. Later in life, I watched and heard as my brother was driven mad by his inappropriate sense of guilt and shame trying to drink and drug himself into oblivion. My poor sweet brother; he had such a tender heart. Sometimes I resented his lack of strength, but only because I was still so confused and frustrated about what had happened to us and I, unlike my brother, did not draw in on myself but suckled myself on bitterness, resentment, and anger.
We sat happily playing in our rooms assuming, after my brother's confession, that the worst was over. What we didn't realize was that my mother now faced the daunting reality of telling my father that his father had been molesting me.
Now my brother, I distinctly remember, had been present and viewed some of the incest that had been perpetrated against me. Why? For the simple fact that Frank (my grandfather) was too damn lazy to get rid of him and just plain didn't care what he saw. He just drug him along into his sickness and twisted world coating his soul with perversity. Other times, my brother was peaking through cracks in the door to my grandparents bedroom, or looking down from the upstairs banister into the living room of our old green house. He had a deep sense that something was wrong. However; he was clearly told the same propaganda I was: "You can't tell or your parents will be mad. It's a secret." And neither one of us wanted to get in the kind of trouble we thought we'd be in for saying anything.
Now my brother and I never discussed what was transpiring not even when we were alone in the bedroom playing. We didn't whisper; there were no looks that passed between us. We were eerily and stonily silent, steadfast in our faithfulness to the grandfather we loved and admired.
So my mom was chatting with us while she washed dishes telling us that no one should touch us in our private parts and clearly defining what private parts meant. I said nothing. I didn't dare. But my brother, who was the more quiet and less rambunctious of the two of us said as clear as day, "But Grandad does that to Molly."
My mom dropped something and it clattered. I whacked my brother on the arm terrified and said, "Mickey, you aren't supposed to tell!" My mom began a series of questions that blurred together for me. It was so ingrained in me not to talk about it. She was crying and I didn't understand why. She said she believed it was true and that it was ok, we weren't in trouble. We were sent to our room to play.
My parents didn't know how bad it was or the extent to which both I and my brother had been accosted and assaulted; my brother by proxy through me. Later in life, I watched and heard as my brother was driven mad by his inappropriate sense of guilt and shame trying to drink and drug himself into oblivion. My poor sweet brother; he had such a tender heart. Sometimes I resented his lack of strength, but only because I was still so confused and frustrated about what had happened to us and I, unlike my brother, did not draw in on myself but suckled myself on bitterness, resentment, and anger.
We sat happily playing in our rooms assuming, after my brother's confession, that the worst was over. What we didn't realize was that my mother now faced the daunting reality of telling my father that his father had been molesting me.
_Mom Tells Dad.
My mother called my father at work: "David, you have to come home right now."
"What the hell is going on? is everything ok?"
"No, it's not ok. You have to come home immediately." Click.
My dad left work. When he came home we were happy to give hugs then sent promptly back upstairs to our room. My folks went into the kitchen. I heard screaming and yelling. My brother and I peaked through the banister railings from our upper level vantage point. The fury and pain in my father's face matched the anguish and rage in his voice as he screamed, "I'll kill him. I'll kill him." He was crying. It was the second time I'd seen him cry. The first was when a family member died.
He was trying to pry the front door open as my mother tried desperately to keep it shut and bar his way from getting out. "David, you are no good to us if you are in prison. You need to calm down and think about this rationally." These are my few vague recollections. I think I also remember my dad brandishing a knife in his hand as he threatened to storm out and kill his father. At least, this is how I remember it.
My dad was angrier than I'd ever seen him. He was my first true love and I had broken his heart. I felt awful. I was sure it was all my fault. Frank's indoctrination had been complete and I thought he was right: my parents were mad at me and what's worse, they hated me. His shame was the coat of pain I wore for many years to come.
I'm not sure how much time passed. Eventually the noise downstairs died down and my folks came upstairs to talk with us. They said over and over again, "It wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. You are a good girl." But on some level, I felt like I had failed them. I caused so much pain and chaos. I didn't understand that I had to put responsibility on the shoulder's of the man who acted out these crimes. The shame in my heart was like a heavy rock.
I think we talked a few times after that. I might have asked a couple of questions but really didn't want to talk about it because it was a secret. In addition, I was only seven-years-old. I just wanted to play with my dollies and forget it ever happened. I had no clue what was going on behind the scenes with the rest of the family. My folks just wanted my life and my brother's to go back to normal as quickly as possible. As I grew older, I learned that normal is nothing more than a setting on the washing machine. My mother and father were young, confused, frightened, hurt and lost. They felt betrayed to the core by what Frank had perpetrated against me, their baby.
The next step was for my father to confront his father. And, on top of this, a while later, my aunt and uncle had their second child, a little girl. They would have to be told as well so the little girl was ok. If she had been a he, then the secret would have remained such as it was. The family boat wasn't being rocked, it was being capsized and with every secret we were all sinking with it.
My mother called my father at work: "David, you have to come home right now."
"What the hell is going on? is everything ok?"
"No, it's not ok. You have to come home immediately." Click.
My dad left work. When he came home we were happy to give hugs then sent promptly back upstairs to our room. My folks went into the kitchen. I heard screaming and yelling. My brother and I peaked through the banister railings from our upper level vantage point. The fury and pain in my father's face matched the anguish and rage in his voice as he screamed, "I'll kill him. I'll kill him." He was crying. It was the second time I'd seen him cry. The first was when a family member died.
He was trying to pry the front door open as my mother tried desperately to keep it shut and bar his way from getting out. "David, you are no good to us if you are in prison. You need to calm down and think about this rationally." These are my few vague recollections. I think I also remember my dad brandishing a knife in his hand as he threatened to storm out and kill his father. At least, this is how I remember it.
My dad was angrier than I'd ever seen him. He was my first true love and I had broken his heart. I felt awful. I was sure it was all my fault. Frank's indoctrination had been complete and I thought he was right: my parents were mad at me and what's worse, they hated me. His shame was the coat of pain I wore for many years to come.
I'm not sure how much time passed. Eventually the noise downstairs died down and my folks came upstairs to talk with us. They said over and over again, "It wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. You are a good girl." But on some level, I felt like I had failed them. I caused so much pain and chaos. I didn't understand that I had to put responsibility on the shoulder's of the man who acted out these crimes. The shame in my heart was like a heavy rock.
I think we talked a few times after that. I might have asked a couple of questions but really didn't want to talk about it because it was a secret. In addition, I was only seven-years-old. I just wanted to play with my dollies and forget it ever happened. I had no clue what was going on behind the scenes with the rest of the family. My folks just wanted my life and my brother's to go back to normal as quickly as possible. As I grew older, I learned that normal is nothing more than a setting on the washing machine. My mother and father were young, confused, frightened, hurt and lost. They felt betrayed to the core by what Frank had perpetrated against me, their baby.
The next step was for my father to confront his father. And, on top of this, a while later, my aunt and uncle had their second child, a little girl. They would have to be told as well so the little girl was ok. If she had been a he, then the secret would have remained such as it was. The family boat wasn't being rocked, it was being capsized and with every secret we were all sinking with it.
_Confession is Good for the Soul.
My father contacted his dad and arranged to meet with him without my grandmother's presence. I'm sure he asked him out to breakfast or something simple along those lines. Nothing to stir any suspicion of what Frank was about to be accused of. My aunt, my dad's youngest sibling was about 12 or 13 at this time. It never occurred to anyone that what had happened to me was most definitely happening to her. Either that, or their denial was as profound as their shock.
My father met with Frank. My parents decided that this confrontation was necessary but Darla, my grandmother, would be left out completely and forever. She didn't need to know. She had a bad heart and there were concerns about a heart attack happening. This, however; was the first mistake for we are only as sick as our secrets. Looking back, for the safety of all concerned and for the general sanity of everyone involved, she should have been spoken to, perhaps after her husband had been spoken to, but nonetheless, it should have happened! However; I believe to this day that she hid the fact that she knew more than she was letting on. My family may have been enmeshed in secrets, but over the years I heard enough comments, and saw enough behaviors that I was able to read between the lines and discern that she was not as innocent as she would protest to be in years to come. At the very least she had suspicions about her husband but chose to live in denial.
Upon being confronted, Frank became compliant, admitting to my dad that what had transpired was true. I don't think that it occurred to my folks at this point that he had been getting away with what he had been doing for years. I suspect, he felt almost relieved when it came to light. Having to secret away such a sin for so long must have been exhausting. In many ways, Frank was a good man: involved at church, went to confession regularly, walked the dog every day, showed up on time to work every day, rarely called in sick, and helped his extended family and children whenever and wherever possible. He was respected by his children and community. So, I can only imagine that his confession came easily because he needed to unburden his soul.
It was then decided that, since he had confessed to my dad, he would also, as a good Catholic, need to confess to the priest. So, it was arranged A priest was called and advised of the situation. Frank was brought to confession while my dad waited outside and it was made clear that he must repent his sin and promise never to do it again. How naive and ignorant my folks were. They just had no clue that this was not going to work. No amount of absolution would stop the compulsive behavior he had been addicted to for so long. Clearly, he had made a pact with Satan himself and could not so easily escape the intricate prison he had built around himself with every carnal, crude, abominable act of child sexual assault.
At some point my new female cousin arrived into the world with a squall like most babies. And we all rejoiced. Since she was a she, my parents knew they had to say something to my Uncle Jason and his wife Brenda. If she had been a he, they would have said nothing. So another meeting occurred and my uncle and his wife were told, "This is family business. If you tell anyone, we'll deny it. This really is the best way to handle it." No one had any experience with this sort of behavior so my uncle and his wife, although they thought it strange to keep it secret, adhered to the request for "privacy."
Then it was time for the next logical step.
My father contacted his dad and arranged to meet with him without my grandmother's presence. I'm sure he asked him out to breakfast or something simple along those lines. Nothing to stir any suspicion of what Frank was about to be accused of. My aunt, my dad's youngest sibling was about 12 or 13 at this time. It never occurred to anyone that what had happened to me was most definitely happening to her. Either that, or their denial was as profound as their shock.
My father met with Frank. My parents decided that this confrontation was necessary but Darla, my grandmother, would be left out completely and forever. She didn't need to know. She had a bad heart and there were concerns about a heart attack happening. This, however; was the first mistake for we are only as sick as our secrets. Looking back, for the safety of all concerned and for the general sanity of everyone involved, she should have been spoken to, perhaps after her husband had been spoken to, but nonetheless, it should have happened! However; I believe to this day that she hid the fact that she knew more than she was letting on. My family may have been enmeshed in secrets, but over the years I heard enough comments, and saw enough behaviors that I was able to read between the lines and discern that she was not as innocent as she would protest to be in years to come. At the very least she had suspicions about her husband but chose to live in denial.
Upon being confronted, Frank became compliant, admitting to my dad that what had transpired was true. I don't think that it occurred to my folks at this point that he had been getting away with what he had been doing for years. I suspect, he felt almost relieved when it came to light. Having to secret away such a sin for so long must have been exhausting. In many ways, Frank was a good man: involved at church, went to confession regularly, walked the dog every day, showed up on time to work every day, rarely called in sick, and helped his extended family and children whenever and wherever possible. He was respected by his children and community. So, I can only imagine that his confession came easily because he needed to unburden his soul.
It was then decided that, since he had confessed to my dad, he would also, as a good Catholic, need to confess to the priest. So, it was arranged A priest was called and advised of the situation. Frank was brought to confession while my dad waited outside and it was made clear that he must repent his sin and promise never to do it again. How naive and ignorant my folks were. They just had no clue that this was not going to work. No amount of absolution would stop the compulsive behavior he had been addicted to for so long. Clearly, he had made a pact with Satan himself and could not so easily escape the intricate prison he had built around himself with every carnal, crude, abominable act of child sexual assault.
At some point my new female cousin arrived into the world with a squall like most babies. And we all rejoiced. Since she was a she, my parents knew they had to say something to my Uncle Jason and his wife Brenda. If she had been a he, they would have said nothing. So another meeting occurred and my uncle and his wife were told, "This is family business. If you tell anyone, we'll deny it. This really is the best way to handle it." No one had any experience with this sort of behavior so my uncle and his wife, although they thought it strange to keep it secret, adhered to the request for "privacy."
Then it was time for the next logical step.
Call 9-1-1. There's Been an Emergency.
_
At some point during this whole process, it was decided that the proper authorities should be contacted. So that is what happened. My parents also consulted with a therapist having concerns for not only my current mental health, but my mental health for years to come. And I'm sure my brother was thrown into the mix as well. I must laud them for this. Making this step in this time, 1978, couldn't have been easy. Neither one of them was from a family that particularly supported the idea of getting others involved in personal family affairs, especially my father. It wasn't right to publicly air your dirty laundry. I do know my grandmother, my mom's mother, was supportive of this step. But not only did they go against their familial normalcy, they went against the cultural norm for the time. In 1978, these things were rarely reported or dealt with outside the family. Only if it was "very serious" did the police get involved. But I'm not quite sure what parameters they used for "very serious." Perhaps death? Who knows!
Now, not only was Granny (Frank's wife) excluded from the goings on but so was my mother's father. They (my grandmother and mother mostly) feared his anger and wrath. They were frightened of what he could and would do to Frank if he found out. He was a man who "knew" some not so nice people. But I wish to say one thing here; my mother's father was a good man despite having grown up in a physically abusive home. And he turned out to be a kind and generous person. He had his issues for sure, but he was a good person overall.
So, it was explained to me that I was not to talk to Grandpa about it or Granny. It would also later be explained that I shouldn't talk to my teachers, my classmates, my friends or anyone else outside my family. Secrets, secrets and more secrets. I'm not sure how I kept track of it all. And it was an awful lot for a little girl to digest and commit to memory, but somehow, I did. I didn't want to let anyone down and I never again wanted to see that rage, fury, and anguish in my father's face. But, I can't see that they had many options left available to them. They were flying by the seat of their pants just as horrified and scared as the rest of us.
The response from the police was that these matters were better left to be dealt with inside the confines of the familial structure. They could do a police report, but there was no real evidence to prove anything. My brother as witness and me as victim would do nothing to prove our case, because at our age, 7 and 8, we were unreliable. The therapist was also concerned about the impact upon my psyche if I were to be put on the witness stand. He didn't see any reason to make me relive the events, never mind the fact that I relived them everyday. He also told them that in my teens I would experience some issues but that those issues could be dealt with at that time. My parents were cautioned to keep a close eye on both my brother and me and expressed that this warning should extend to the other grandchildren of the family.
So all the adults agreed; the grandchildren's exposure to Frank needed to be closely monitored. And my parents decided to take it one-step further by notifying the parents of every child they knew that could come into contact with Frank or Darla. Mostly, the parents of children they knew who played with us. It was done tactfully and carefully, but it was done. And I must commend them for it. Given the culture of the time, this could not have been an easy task to face over and over again.
They also knew they had to talk to Floyd, my dad's other brother because his girlfriend at the time had given birth to a girl and since uncle Jason had been informed, it was only fair to let Floyd in on the secret as well. Floyd never could quite believe it. Years later, when I was in my twenties, he said I was a lying bitch and threatened that he would "kill" me. I'm sure this was said either in a drunken stupor or drug induced haze. Either that, or his mind had been so warped by drinking, snorting, smoking, injecting, and swallowing any drug known to man that he was a complete mental basket case. I gave no real credence to threat. He was just spouting and probably hurting. I think in his heart he knew it was true, but wanted to stand by his father's side. That, and denial wraps around the mind like a protective shield sometimes allowing us to survive the most unthinkable of circumstances. and the most horrible of truths.
But yet again, my poor aunt, only a young teen, was over looked. No one even considered her to be part of the children that needed looking after and distance from Frank. And even if they did, what could they do? What possible legal right would they have had to do anything for her? So, she slipped through the cracks. Lord have mercy, the child was left vulnerable in the fox's den.
So we were more closely guarded and no longer left alone with my grandparents at any time for any reason. Since Darla did not "know" anything, we could not be left alone with her because she wouldn't know we needed protecting, or so it appeared. Things in the family began to die down and settle out and then in 1979, when I was 8-years-old, my parents made an important announcement.
At some point during this whole process, it was decided that the proper authorities should be contacted. So that is what happened. My parents also consulted with a therapist having concerns for not only my current mental health, but my mental health for years to come. And I'm sure my brother was thrown into the mix as well. I must laud them for this. Making this step in this time, 1978, couldn't have been easy. Neither one of them was from a family that particularly supported the idea of getting others involved in personal family affairs, especially my father. It wasn't right to publicly air your dirty laundry. I do know my grandmother, my mom's mother, was supportive of this step. But not only did they go against their familial normalcy, they went against the cultural norm for the time. In 1978, these things were rarely reported or dealt with outside the family. Only if it was "very serious" did the police get involved. But I'm not quite sure what parameters they used for "very serious." Perhaps death? Who knows!
Now, not only was Granny (Frank's wife) excluded from the goings on but so was my mother's father. They (my grandmother and mother mostly) feared his anger and wrath. They were frightened of what he could and would do to Frank if he found out. He was a man who "knew" some not so nice people. But I wish to say one thing here; my mother's father was a good man despite having grown up in a physically abusive home. And he turned out to be a kind and generous person. He had his issues for sure, but he was a good person overall.
So, it was explained to me that I was not to talk to Grandpa about it or Granny. It would also later be explained that I shouldn't talk to my teachers, my classmates, my friends or anyone else outside my family. Secrets, secrets and more secrets. I'm not sure how I kept track of it all. And it was an awful lot for a little girl to digest and commit to memory, but somehow, I did. I didn't want to let anyone down and I never again wanted to see that rage, fury, and anguish in my father's face. But, I can't see that they had many options left available to them. They were flying by the seat of their pants just as horrified and scared as the rest of us.
The response from the police was that these matters were better left to be dealt with inside the confines of the familial structure. They could do a police report, but there was no real evidence to prove anything. My brother as witness and me as victim would do nothing to prove our case, because at our age, 7 and 8, we were unreliable. The therapist was also concerned about the impact upon my psyche if I were to be put on the witness stand. He didn't see any reason to make me relive the events, never mind the fact that I relived them everyday. He also told them that in my teens I would experience some issues but that those issues could be dealt with at that time. My parents were cautioned to keep a close eye on both my brother and me and expressed that this warning should extend to the other grandchildren of the family.
So all the adults agreed; the grandchildren's exposure to Frank needed to be closely monitored. And my parents decided to take it one-step further by notifying the parents of every child they knew that could come into contact with Frank or Darla. Mostly, the parents of children they knew who played with us. It was done tactfully and carefully, but it was done. And I must commend them for it. Given the culture of the time, this could not have been an easy task to face over and over again.
They also knew they had to talk to Floyd, my dad's other brother because his girlfriend at the time had given birth to a girl and since uncle Jason had been informed, it was only fair to let Floyd in on the secret as well. Floyd never could quite believe it. Years later, when I was in my twenties, he said I was a lying bitch and threatened that he would "kill" me. I'm sure this was said either in a drunken stupor or drug induced haze. Either that, or his mind had been so warped by drinking, snorting, smoking, injecting, and swallowing any drug known to man that he was a complete mental basket case. I gave no real credence to threat. He was just spouting and probably hurting. I think in his heart he knew it was true, but wanted to stand by his father's side. That, and denial wraps around the mind like a protective shield sometimes allowing us to survive the most unthinkable of circumstances. and the most horrible of truths.
But yet again, my poor aunt, only a young teen, was over looked. No one even considered her to be part of the children that needed looking after and distance from Frank. And even if they did, what could they do? What possible legal right would they have had to do anything for her? So, she slipped through the cracks. Lord have mercy, the child was left vulnerable in the fox's den.
So we were more closely guarded and no longer left alone with my grandparents at any time for any reason. Since Darla did not "know" anything, we could not be left alone with her because she wouldn't know we needed protecting, or so it appeared. Things in the family began to die down and settle out and then in 1979, when I was 8-years-old, my parents made an important announcement.
Houston, The Eagle Has Landed.
_My parents wasted no time.
My father finished up college in a few short months earning his business
degree and found a job in Houston, Texas. There was quite a frenzy
with all the packing and preparation to move. I remember trying to do
what I could to help my mom showing how I had packed things in an effort
to make her proud. She always told me what a wonderful job I did and
then, I'm sure, had to re-pack it.
My dad and my mom's brother drove the moving van to San Diego and my mom, brother, and I followed behind in the yellow Pinto. My brother and I stayed in San Diego for a few days and flew out to Houston after my folks had settled and unpacked in the new apartment. We just took off like a rocket ship. It really did happen so fast. I remember leaving and saying goodbye to Frank and Darla and there were tears all the way around. And I remember feeling profoundly sad. Good or bad, it was the only world I had ever known.
As we climbed in the car and my mom started the engine I saw my aunt standing there on the stoop. Tears were streaming down her face. The sad look on her face scared me. I saw more than sadness there, I saw terror, but at the time I couldn't identify it. As we plunged forward to a new world cutting a swath across the sky, her world became a smaller more confining prison, a dark, dank dungeon of horrors. I think my daily presence and my brother's helped to sooth her. But now, she did not have even that.
My tears were quickly dried and replaced with a sense of adventure. We were moving to a cool new place. And the farther away we got from the bay area, the more peace and contentment I felt. I was excited about our new home. Although I never forgot anything, my terrible memories quickly faded to the background. When we arrived at our new apartment I just remember feeling free again. Free to run and play. Free to squeal and be merry. Free to be a kid without wondering when the next inappropriate touch would happen. I finally could let down my guard and just be me. My brother relaxed too. It was a relief for our whole family. My mom and dad knew they needed to be away from it all and make a fresh start.
Quickly my parents bought a home to move us out of the apartment, but we had to wait a few months while it was being built. But it was exciting to think of having our own home. After some time we were moved into the new house and Mickey and I had started a new school. It was strange to go from Catholic school to public school, but I liked my teachers and classmates. And so, time passed. We missed our grandparents, despite everything, and they missed us. My granny called a lot to complain to my dad about how he had taken away her precious grand babies. Her world usually did revolve around her.
And then it was decided, after more than a year, that a visit would be a good idea and we were sent back during the summer to see my grandparents - alone.
My dad and my mom's brother drove the moving van to San Diego and my mom, brother, and I followed behind in the yellow Pinto. My brother and I stayed in San Diego for a few days and flew out to Houston after my folks had settled and unpacked in the new apartment. We just took off like a rocket ship. It really did happen so fast. I remember leaving and saying goodbye to Frank and Darla and there were tears all the way around. And I remember feeling profoundly sad. Good or bad, it was the only world I had ever known.
As we climbed in the car and my mom started the engine I saw my aunt standing there on the stoop. Tears were streaming down her face. The sad look on her face scared me. I saw more than sadness there, I saw terror, but at the time I couldn't identify it. As we plunged forward to a new world cutting a swath across the sky, her world became a smaller more confining prison, a dark, dank dungeon of horrors. I think my daily presence and my brother's helped to sooth her. But now, she did not have even that.
My tears were quickly dried and replaced with a sense of adventure. We were moving to a cool new place. And the farther away we got from the bay area, the more peace and contentment I felt. I was excited about our new home. Although I never forgot anything, my terrible memories quickly faded to the background. When we arrived at our new apartment I just remember feeling free again. Free to run and play. Free to squeal and be merry. Free to be a kid without wondering when the next inappropriate touch would happen. I finally could let down my guard and just be me. My brother relaxed too. It was a relief for our whole family. My mom and dad knew they needed to be away from it all and make a fresh start.
Quickly my parents bought a home to move us out of the apartment, but we had to wait a few months while it was being built. But it was exciting to think of having our own home. After some time we were moved into the new house and Mickey and I had started a new school. It was strange to go from Catholic school to public school, but I liked my teachers and classmates. And so, time passed. We missed our grandparents, despite everything, and they missed us. My granny called a lot to complain to my dad about how he had taken away her precious grand babies. Her world usually did revolve around her.
And then it was decided, after more than a year, that a visit would be a good idea and we were sent back during the summer to see my grandparents - alone.
_I Blow Down the Walls of Jericho
The details were worked out, the date set, the trip planned, and plane tickets purchased. I wanted to go. I really did. And I think my parents were tired of being harangued by my grandparents about stealing away their grand babies and taking them all the way to Texas. And for all of us, this whole arrangement seemed quite normal. Mostly, my brother and I just took our cues from our parents. There was nothing odd or out of the ordinary about my parents consenting to let both me and my brother head back to the bay area to spend a month with my grandparents and cousins.
And thus, denial and secrecy had become a regular part of life for all of us. The problem was gone. It had been dealt with. There was nothing left to worry about because my grandfather had been given a stern talking to and sent to confession. The family was through doing what they had to do. And as for me (and my brother) it was just expected that we were okay. And so, we were. We were little; we didn't understand. And the adults we counted on for guidance and boundaries unfortunately had neither guidance themselves nor any experience establishing boundaries. It was all quite a normal affair. And besides, not sending us could raise flags of alarm for my grandmother, and this...we could not have. Her safety and well being were paramount to anything and everything else, even more so than my personal safety and sense of security and well being.
Before leaving, our parents decided to paint our bedrooms and we got to pick the colors. My brother chose sky blue with clouds on the ceiling. And I, of course, chose pink, bright bubble gum pink. So I could relive my pink oasis every day of my life.
We arrived excited for a chance to see not only our grandparents and aunt, but also to see our cousins. My brother had been told to keep an eye out for me. I'm not exactly sure what they expected him to do against a grown male who was also a pedophile. But for some, ignorance is bliss, while for others, like my brother, it was the curse that nearly snapped him in two by the time he became a young man.
Shortly after our arrival, it did not take long for things to turn sour for me. One afternoon, as I sat watching cartoons, Frank approached me. He put my feet in his lap for a rub. I didn't realize, yet, what his ultimate intention was. My brother was somewhere outside playing. Slowly his hand worked up my leg and then it dawned on me what was happening. I froze. My heart started beating faster. My mind was racing as I thought, "Oh, God. Not again! What do I do?"
My parents at least had the presence of my mind to tell both me and my brother that we did not have to put up with inappropriate touching. I could leave and just walk away and I could say no. Frank was not to be messing with me. How foolish to think that a child could be so powerful against a grown adult. But then, I did the unthinkable. I blew down the walls of Jericho.
With every last ounce of courage I could muster, I quickly jumped up, and announced, "I want a cookie." I ran into the kitchen before he had a chance to say no. I grabbed one out of the jar as fast as I could, then my little legs ran me out the back door, down the stairs and around to the side of the house. I was shaking and upset. My heart was beating so hard. But from that day forward, I knew the tide had changed in my favor. I was more cautious about not being left alone with him. I would make sure to go with my grandmother everywhere I went, if he was home. And on the few days we stayed with our cousins, I was free to just be a messy, noisy, playful kid with not a care in the world. It was a spot of sanity in an otherwise insane environment. My aunt and uncle were so good to us and blessed my childhood with happy memories.
Upon our return, I cried on the way home from the airport telling my parents what happened. They were upset, of course. God bless them both, they were just so ignorant. And when they knew better, they did better. But it took a long time for them to figure it out, then they had to contend with their own guilt and grief over their misguided choices. I think, like me, they just desperately wanted everything to be okay. I'm not sure what they did with the information I gave them. After that day my life just bounced forward as I went about my days just being a kid.
The details were worked out, the date set, the trip planned, and plane tickets purchased. I wanted to go. I really did. And I think my parents were tired of being harangued by my grandparents about stealing away their grand babies and taking them all the way to Texas. And for all of us, this whole arrangement seemed quite normal. Mostly, my brother and I just took our cues from our parents. There was nothing odd or out of the ordinary about my parents consenting to let both me and my brother head back to the bay area to spend a month with my grandparents and cousins.
And thus, denial and secrecy had become a regular part of life for all of us. The problem was gone. It had been dealt with. There was nothing left to worry about because my grandfather had been given a stern talking to and sent to confession. The family was through doing what they had to do. And as for me (and my brother) it was just expected that we were okay. And so, we were. We were little; we didn't understand. And the adults we counted on for guidance and boundaries unfortunately had neither guidance themselves nor any experience establishing boundaries. It was all quite a normal affair. And besides, not sending us could raise flags of alarm for my grandmother, and this...we could not have. Her safety and well being were paramount to anything and everything else, even more so than my personal safety and sense of security and well being.
Before leaving, our parents decided to paint our bedrooms and we got to pick the colors. My brother chose sky blue with clouds on the ceiling. And I, of course, chose pink, bright bubble gum pink. So I could relive my pink oasis every day of my life.
We arrived excited for a chance to see not only our grandparents and aunt, but also to see our cousins. My brother had been told to keep an eye out for me. I'm not exactly sure what they expected him to do against a grown male who was also a pedophile. But for some, ignorance is bliss, while for others, like my brother, it was the curse that nearly snapped him in two by the time he became a young man.
Shortly after our arrival, it did not take long for things to turn sour for me. One afternoon, as I sat watching cartoons, Frank approached me. He put my feet in his lap for a rub. I didn't realize, yet, what his ultimate intention was. My brother was somewhere outside playing. Slowly his hand worked up my leg and then it dawned on me what was happening. I froze. My heart started beating faster. My mind was racing as I thought, "Oh, God. Not again! What do I do?"
My parents at least had the presence of my mind to tell both me and my brother that we did not have to put up with inappropriate touching. I could leave and just walk away and I could say no. Frank was not to be messing with me. How foolish to think that a child could be so powerful against a grown adult. But then, I did the unthinkable. I blew down the walls of Jericho.
With every last ounce of courage I could muster, I quickly jumped up, and announced, "I want a cookie." I ran into the kitchen before he had a chance to say no. I grabbed one out of the jar as fast as I could, then my little legs ran me out the back door, down the stairs and around to the side of the house. I was shaking and upset. My heart was beating so hard. But from that day forward, I knew the tide had changed in my favor. I was more cautious about not being left alone with him. I would make sure to go with my grandmother everywhere I went, if he was home. And on the few days we stayed with our cousins, I was free to just be a messy, noisy, playful kid with not a care in the world. It was a spot of sanity in an otherwise insane environment. My aunt and uncle were so good to us and blessed my childhood with happy memories.
Upon our return, I cried on the way home from the airport telling my parents what happened. They were upset, of course. God bless them both, they were just so ignorant. And when they knew better, they did better. But it took a long time for them to figure it out, then they had to contend with their own guilt and grief over their misguided choices. I think, like me, they just desperately wanted everything to be okay. I'm not sure what they did with the information I gave them. After that day my life just bounced forward as I went about my days just being a kid.
And so the Story Goes...
There was no doubt about it, the after shocks of these events and the sins of my grandfather reverberated throughout my life. In my early '20s my suffering brought me to my to my knees and to counseling.... very intense counseling for 2 and a half years. Then I did some more of the same in my late twenties for several months. As my marriage fell apart at the age of 40, I did more counseling and saw the larger dynamics of how this whole scenario began to replay itself with my in-laws. I had recycled the same story over 20 years later without realizing it. Shocking indeed.
Today though, for the most part, I live in a state of grace where I have been gifted forgiveness and accepted it. It took a long time, lots of counseling, talking, group therapy, writing, searching, reading, crying, yelling, sadness, and depression, but little by little I got there. It also took release, joy, willingness to give life a chance, and living openly and honestly.
At about the age of 24 or 25 I decided to confront my grandfather. My aunt and uncle were instrumental in helping me with this. My grandparents were prepared ahead of time for my visit by my Uncle Jason. He decided that it was time that Granny knew what was going on and so he did the unthinkable; he spoke to her. What an ache that must have put on his tender heart. He is a strong, logical, smart man, but he is also loving and dear. This must have been an extremely difficult day for him.
Nervously we sat, just the 3 of us, in the living room of their house - the living room that had not changed in 40-years. I confronted Frank about what happened. I was not hostile but I was certain and confident. I clearly remember saying, "You have told others in our family how sorry you are and how bad you feel, but you have not apologized to me and you owe me an apology."
Frank looked at me, or rather glared at me and said, "I think you know how I feel."
I glared back and said in a firm, unwavering voice, "You owe me an apology."
So, he apologized as he cried. What he blathered about after that, I couldn't tell you. If he was genuine, well I couldn't tell you that either. But I can say his intention didn't matter to me. What mattered is that I had confronted him, spoke the truth, and got what I came for. I then offered him unconditional forgiveness. I would have given it had he not apologized because that was what I came there to do, but shockingly enough, he did do it. I needed to forgive him if I was to move on with my life once and for all.
At the age of 28, a year or two after this whole affair, I received the full grace of letting go. My willingness to forgive had opened the door to a whole new way of living. My hatred and sense of injustice and victimization was relieved while in a special service at church where we sat in silent prayer for 1-hour. As I knelt and prayed my heart was overwhelmed by the Holy Spirit. Tears and years of grief racked my body as they were suddenly, inexplicably released. I felt as if a moment had passed. But when I looked at the clock an amazing 45 minutes had passed. I had lost all sense of time and my healing was complete. My hatred was gone completely and without question.
However; in varying ways, my life would continue to reveal the effects of this childhood trauma. I don't think one can ever 100% escape such a thing. And I don't know that one should try. If I remain willing to be open to the lessons I have to learn from this then I grow as a woman, a human, a precious child of God. I am not a human perfect, I am a human being. This is an ever evolving process that requires introspection, patience, and willingness to learn and listen to what God has to say. So when I have a flare up, I do my best to handle it with prayer, confession, and help from others. And God willing, I will keep learning and keep getting better one moment, one hour, one day, one year...one life at a time.
And when I feel lost and dazed I remind myself that heaven is indeed pink.
Blessings to you, and thank you for reading my story.
Molly Ann
Today though, for the most part, I live in a state of grace where I have been gifted forgiveness and accepted it. It took a long time, lots of counseling, talking, group therapy, writing, searching, reading, crying, yelling, sadness, and depression, but little by little I got there. It also took release, joy, willingness to give life a chance, and living openly and honestly.
At about the age of 24 or 25 I decided to confront my grandfather. My aunt and uncle were instrumental in helping me with this. My grandparents were prepared ahead of time for my visit by my Uncle Jason. He decided that it was time that Granny knew what was going on and so he did the unthinkable; he spoke to her. What an ache that must have put on his tender heart. He is a strong, logical, smart man, but he is also loving and dear. This must have been an extremely difficult day for him.
Nervously we sat, just the 3 of us, in the living room of their house - the living room that had not changed in 40-years. I confronted Frank about what happened. I was not hostile but I was certain and confident. I clearly remember saying, "You have told others in our family how sorry you are and how bad you feel, but you have not apologized to me and you owe me an apology."
Frank looked at me, or rather glared at me and said, "I think you know how I feel."
I glared back and said in a firm, unwavering voice, "You owe me an apology."
So, he apologized as he cried. What he blathered about after that, I couldn't tell you. If he was genuine, well I couldn't tell you that either. But I can say his intention didn't matter to me. What mattered is that I had confronted him, spoke the truth, and got what I came for. I then offered him unconditional forgiveness. I would have given it had he not apologized because that was what I came there to do, but shockingly enough, he did do it. I needed to forgive him if I was to move on with my life once and for all.
At the age of 28, a year or two after this whole affair, I received the full grace of letting go. My willingness to forgive had opened the door to a whole new way of living. My hatred and sense of injustice and victimization was relieved while in a special service at church where we sat in silent prayer for 1-hour. As I knelt and prayed my heart was overwhelmed by the Holy Spirit. Tears and years of grief racked my body as they were suddenly, inexplicably released. I felt as if a moment had passed. But when I looked at the clock an amazing 45 minutes had passed. I had lost all sense of time and my healing was complete. My hatred was gone completely and without question.
However; in varying ways, my life would continue to reveal the effects of this childhood trauma. I don't think one can ever 100% escape such a thing. And I don't know that one should try. If I remain willing to be open to the lessons I have to learn from this then I grow as a woman, a human, a precious child of God. I am not a human perfect, I am a human being. This is an ever evolving process that requires introspection, patience, and willingness to learn and listen to what God has to say. So when I have a flare up, I do my best to handle it with prayer, confession, and help from others. And God willing, I will keep learning and keep getting better one moment, one hour, one day, one year...one life at a time.
And when I feel lost and dazed I remind myself that heaven is indeed pink.
Blessings to you, and thank you for reading my story.
Molly Ann