My extended family was huge. Down the street just past a small city park from my grandmother’s house lived the Jones family, a clan of more than twelve siblings raised by a tall, powerful woman I only knew as Mama J. During the Depression in Alabama, to survive after her husband died from pneumonia, Mama G raised her kids and managed a truck farm. They sold tomatoes, corn, eggs, butter, and other products on their farm on the side of the road near Decatur, Alabama. Mama J was the anchor of the family, and she was a woman who, through determination and hard work, eventually was able to buy a house in town and live out her years in the relative comfort of a house in Five Points in Athens. My awareness of Mama J comes from the later years of her life. At over 100 years old, she was somewhat mobile and cared for by her children who lived with her.
My last real memory of Mama J was sitting in a chair in the living room of their house during the annual Christmas party. The family gathered around her and yelled “Squeeze the ball, Mama!” Dutifully she would squeeze the ball and smile, her wig slightly askew. No words crossed her lips and she sat, dressed in a party dress, hunched over slightly due to her scoliosis, holding that red ball, squeezing it on request. Her daughter Emma, a loud, strong woman was a constant companion. Emma, nearly six feet tall in a dark green dress stood by her mother during the party. Emma was demanding, ordering people around. Her bright red wig didn’t quite fit her head and her gray hair poked underneath the plastic, hair-like cap. When she spoke to me, she always poked her index finger into my chest to make a point. Years later when she developed dementia, I would see her walking in the neighborhood, clearly lost. I’d stop her and she would call me Henry, my grandfather’s name, and ask me where I’d been all this time. Emma was a story unto herself.
One of Mama J’s many children was Franklin, my mother’s favorite uncle. Franklin was always in our lives. He served in World War II and when his brother died in battle in Europe, Franklin was shipped home to take care of the family. He served in Puerto Rico and talked about driving a supply truck through the jungle. His stories were not very interesting or exciting, and learning how to drive a truck filled with food supplies seemed like a silly job to a young boy.
Still, Franklin was always present driving my mother, sisters, and me to pick peaches or visit a beach in South Carolina. His driving, in a dark green 1970 Pontiac Catalina was terrible. The behemoth of a vehicle had a split-grill chrome bumper that stuck out a good 10 inches from the hood of the car. The car wandered all over the road. He swerved, cut corners, and flew down the highway to the places we went. On one outing to a peach orchard, he kept driving off the shoulder of the road, kicking up dirt. My Mom was constantly badgering him to stay on the road and in the back on vinyl seats, we loved being thrown around, beltless and sliding back and forth. At the orchard, we picked about two bushels of peaches, a large amount for children to harvest in the sweltering heat. At one point, Franklin came up to me and said, “I love peaches when they are dead ripe.” He looked at me and slowly bit into the flesh of the peach, juice streaming down his chin and neck onto his white t-shirt. The liquid stained his clothing, but Franklin didn’t care; he walked up to a tree, grabbed another “dead ripe” peach, and gorged himself.
Franklin was close to my mother, and she said that he was by far one of her favorite people. As I got older, Franklin played with me, roughly. He often punched me in the arm, and I felt the pain and sting of the hit. He kept doing it until I got angry; then he told me “Punch my fist! Go on! Do it!” Against my better judgment, I punched and punched…the pain of hitting his knuckles was too much and I gave up on the game as he laughed. Franklin didn’t stop, however. He grabbed me and wrestled me to the ground; his muscular frame was hard to escape, and his body crushed my chest. I started hitting him harder and harder. I couldn’t breathe and he kept taunting me, “Come on, Tad.” He laughed and finally got up. I slowly climbed to my knees, fueled with anger and shame of being pinned for so long.
I always knew something was off about Franklin. He always wanted to hang out with me and asked my parents if I could go play golf with him. Sometimes my dad went; other times I went with him to places like Hard Labor Creek golf course or some other activity. Over the months, I was more and more reluctant to go on these treks. His comments were strange and his references to men he knew during the war were something that didn’t make sense to me at the time.
During the summer of my thirteenth year, my family was on a vacation in the North Alabama mountains staying in a small cabin my grandmother owned and Franklin came along with my parents, sisters, and grandmother. The tiny space included a large stone fireplace and wooden floors with ancient windows that barely closed. Some kind of small insect burrowed into the wood on the floorboards, and you could see these small mounds of sawdust piled on the floor. The tiny kitchen included a small pantry and a gray vinyl countertop that was maybe two feet across. A refrigerator and stove also took up the rest of the space. The stove was electric with four burners, the smallest I’d ever seen. The kitchen wasn’t made for cooking big meals.
Everything in the cabin felt old and worn out—even the water from the well tasted old. The smell of the water from the tap was strange and tasted of minerals and earth. The well was in a small building up the hill about ten feet from the cabin. Inside the well house was a concrete floor and a hole in the ground covered with a metal lid. Deep inside the well was a small pump that failed often. It pumped the water into the house. The smell in that little structure was moldy, musty, and wet. The cabin was in the middle of the northeast Alabama mountains that receive hundreds of inches of rain in a year. It always smelled of rain and rotting plants. Leaves covered the forest floor and walking through the trees was almost silent as sound was absorbed by layers of leaves between the trees. Later I learned that it was an old house, built in the late 1920s on land owned by O.B. Land. The landowner had built a small road in the 20s that went around the lake. The remains of that dirt road, no more than eight feet wide, were about twenty feet below the house. As my grandmother said more than once, the air surrounding the cabin was “close” meaning the air around the cabin was heavy with humidity and the smell of the forest. A week in the cabin felt cramped, tight, and isolated.
Each morning after cereal for breakfast we’d walk down the many stone steps to the boat dock to swim in the lake. The water was a deep shade of green slightly masking things below the water. You could make out downed trees, limbs, old car tires, and metal cables. Across the lake from us in an area we called “the cove” was a hill with a rope swing. The swing, attached to a tree by a thick metal cable, swung about twenty feet into the air. To swing, you’d swim over to the far bank, walk through the mud along the bank, and up the hill to grab the cable and swing into the lake. It was critical to swing far away from the bank as downed trees filled the water near the shore. It was terrifying.
On our side of the lake near where we swam was a huge wooden barge used years before to bring lumber to build the houses on this part of the lake. It sat in the water, chains holding it to rocks sunk deeply into the lake bottom muck. It was strange and eerie seeing this structure suspended in this green ichor.
During the week, Franklin was always the guy who jumped into the water and splashed or knocked you off a float; if you were relaxing, he leaped into the water with the intent to send you sailing off your repose. Repeatedly he messed with me. He grabbed my float, tossed me into the water, and threw me off the dock. By this point in my life, it was getting old.
One night, after dinner, my sisters and I were tucked into bed. The bedroom was small and filled with two bunk beds. I was on the upper bunk of a metal frame bunk bed in the cabin. My Dad and Mom came in to wish us goodnight. Franklin came in a few minutes later. He pushed each of us around saying goodnight, putting his hands on our arms, and shoving us back and forth. When he got to me, he pushed my left arm and then, suddenly, grabbed my crotch…he latched on hard and pulled. I hit his hand, repeatedly, and he tried again. I jerked away from him and after one more attempt he said “Night, Tad.”
I lay there sleepless and terrified. This act was the first of many that Franklin would do to me over the years. My reactions became more and more violent. So did his. He was a very strong man, and I had to constantly avoid getting trapped in a wickedly painful embrace.
These events almost always were when the family was around. In one case, I locked a door to keep him out by using a tiny hook and eye latch; he taunted me outside the door, and I heard my family laughing. “Come on, boy, open the door. What’s wrong little baby?” I never felt safe behind that door, knowing that if he pushed hard enough, he would push into the room to molest me again.
My silence about these encounters was deafening. I’m not sure exactly why I could never tell anyone what was happening. Maybe it was because I always heard the stories about how great Franklin was. How kind he was; how he helped everyone. Maybe I knew that my parents would not believe me. To them, Franklin was a saint. They considered me untrustworthy and told me often.
The painful truth was, that I did lie to my parents about little things all the time. When it comes down to it, I wasn’t a kid who was seen, heard, or accepted. Let me explain. I had to conform to some idea of who I was supposed to be. From a very early age, my mother picked out clothes for me to wear. For years it was about the way I looked. Dressing appropriately was important for my mother. This unwritten dress code was a constant drone in my brain. Even when I was planning to go to a Homecoming Dance, my mother demanded that I dress a certain way. It sounds so simple, doesn’t it? Just dress the way your mother wanted you to dress, what was the problem?
The problem was that being dressed the way my mother wanted was just one of the many aspects of the control. More difficult for me was how my mother controlled the way I spoke and acted. Anger was not an acceptable response; being too loud or too funny was also outside the bounds of behavior. I faced a narrow path of acceptance. To be loved, and to be cared for required me to act a certain way. Outside of that, I was rejected, isolated, and alone.
In this context of behavior and control, I developed a kind of secret identity, one in which I could be myself. This self-required that I hide things from my parents….nothing big; it wasn’t like I did anything bad or wrong. I just had to live under the radar, so to speak. “Did you take out the trash?” “Yep!” (I hadn’t). “Did you feed the dog?” “Yep” (I hadn’t)…these small defiant acts were, in fact, small. I never snuck out of the house, went to parties, or otherwise violated the basic structure of our household. Years later, when I decided to leave Alabama in my early twenties, my father told my grandmother, “I’ve never told Tad how proud I was of him. He’s never done anything wrong, ever, He’s been the perfect child. I cannot believe he’s leaving; he’ll come home.” She related this story months after I’d left Alabama for Montana, I was never able to say to my father, “I’m never coming home to live in Alabama again.”
So, when it came to dealing with Franklin, I did it alone. I got tired of hearing about him all the time and when I could stop hanging around him at fifteen, my parents scolded me about being “mean to Franklin.” When it came down to it, I never trusted that they would protect me from this man. He was brutal, violent, and a child molester.
My last physical encounter with Franklin happened in my parent’s house when I was 16. My parents were out, and I was making dinner in the kitchen. Our house was never locked. I was in the kitchen. The kitchen had a long counter that ran on my left with cabinets and drawers. At the corner of the counter making a ninety-degree angle was a small counter and a countertop stove in front of me. I faced the stove, stirring a pot with pasta. The door to the kitchen, which opened to the garage, was behind me. As I managed the pot with sauce and the one with pasta, Franklin quietly opened the door and came into the kitchen. He left the door open. He took two steps and pinned me against the counter in the corner. It happened so fast that I couldn’t react or turn around. His arms wrapped around my arms and chest. I struggled, in vain, against his grip. I swung my arms wildly as I tried to turn to face him. In one swift motion, I took my right arm out of his grasp and swung around. I managed to make it ½ way and connected a glancing blow to his chin. This blow released his hold slightly and I was able to face him. I punched hard to his rib cage, my hand hurting in the process…he groaned, and then with a little more space I kicked him in the crotch. He bent over, slightly, and then I kicked him again in the shin. He backed away. I threw a wild punch at his head and my hand stung as I connected with his forehead. The pain staggered me a little. Franklin slowly walked backward. I pushed him hard and he hit the door frame. Just as quickly as he entered, he turned and walked swiftly out of the door and into the empty garage. I watched him get into his car and pull out of the driveway.
I turned off the stove and ran out the front door of the house. In the driveway was my uncle Henry’s car, a blue Plymouth Scamp he said I could borrow. I saw Franklin’s car on the street, the green Pontiac Catalina stopped by the curb. In a quick decision, I leapt to the blue car fired up the engine and hit the gas hard. I pulled out of the driveway, and I sped past Franklin sitting in his car.
I don’t remember how I ended up at McDonald’s on Prince and ordered some fries. From there I drove and drove all over the city. About three hours later I headed back toward the house. Hoping my parents were home, I approached the house from the opposite direction. As I came down a slight hill, I saw Franklin’s car slowly coming down the street toward our house. I hit the gas and drove past him as he looked at me through the window.
I felt disgust, anger, and fear. I decided, at that moment, that I would never be around him again. He appeared at family gatherings, and I was never in the same room with him. I moved around, avoiding his gaze and his attention during his visits. Once more, many years later, I rode with my father to land he inherited from his brother. I wouldn’t get within feet of Franklin. At that point, he was a shell of his former self, struggling with the daily activities of life. He now drove a pickup truck and I noticed, on the dash of the truck, thirty small bottles of Neutrogena Hand Cream. The disgust I felt raged through my stomach.
As he entered assisted living, my mother cared for him until the day he died. She was his constant companion as his life ebbed away. He died in a costly assisted living facility. He inherited land worth a small fortune that allowed an expansive level of care, something I will never see. His death came late in life, close to ninety years old. I don’t know who else was tortured by his violence. I told some of my younger cousins, when I saw them, to watch out for Franklin. They looked at me quizzically. He was a monster.
What I discovered in those years was this basic premise of life: some people present themselves as saviors; sometimes those saviors are monsters in disguise. I came to understand the concept of grooming and how the trips to play golf or to bring ice cream to our house were the ways he used to lure me. Of course, the lure never worked in the sense that he found a compliant recipient of his violence. He wore a disguise so well that many today refuse to believe the bitter truth. In those moments when no one, absolutely no one, believes you, you must trust and believe in yourself. The only way I made it through was to trust my feelings of unease. I did everything in my power to create distance from the terror. I had to believe in who I was. I was sufficient to the horrors I faced.
This incident also led me to another painful and life-altering conclusion. G-d never intervened on my behalf. Let me be clear: I prayed and prayed and prayed. I read the Bible cover to cover, repeatedly. I used to be able to recite central texts from the Gospels word for word. I memorized Psalms and knew what they meant. I asked questions, I read other books about belief. I heard about the “mystery” the “God’s will” and all about “God’s plan.” When it came down to it, my devotion did not lead to my salvation. At the University of Alabama, I studied religious texts and was fascinated by Medieval literature and writings. I read St. Anselm’s Ontological Argument and studied Ibn Sina and Ibn Rushd’s work. I was obsessed with Maimonides’s “Guide to the Perplexed” and sought insight and answers through these brilliant scholar’s interpretation of Biblical texts and ideas. When I found Thomas Aquinas’s Summa Theologica, I thought I had found answers. His reasoned arguments, borrowed from Ibn Sina, were remarkable proof of the existence of G-d. I dug into his work, even using my rudimentary Latin skills to read the original Latin text. I even had a copy of the first Latin Bible, The Vulgate. I read the Bible in Latin.
None of these actions or attempts at understanding relieved my torture and shame. I could not believe, ultimately, that some reward waited after death. That suffering in this life had meaning. Seriously. Think about this idea: you’re suffering now, but just wait UNTIL AFTER YOU’RE DEAD…it’s going to be paradise. So, was G-d saying to me to just accept the repeated molestation and possible rape? That’s what I had to do? Society went on to say, “Take it like a man.” Having a stoic response, a distant response to this horrific situation. The question I faced hit me hard: Why would a loving G-d allow for the kind of suffering I faced? I kept hearing that G-d was love. Are you serious? I’d read about miracles, where was my miracle? How was this situation representative of G-d’s love?
The truth was that no one came to save me. No one stepped in. Not Jesus, not the Holy Spirit, no one. When I came to realize it was just me that was the one that had to do something, I decided to do something. I did something. I finally used my strength and wrath to exact punishment for this horror of a human being. Truthfully, nothing in my experience will ever change my mind that this man, considered to be a good person, was nothing more than a predator, a pedophile, hiding in plain sight. I no longer blame my parents for not protecting me. I did learn that the only one I can rely on is me. Whether that takeaway was good or bad is irrelevant; it was my understanding of how life worked. No one was ever coming to save me. Ever.
Reflections on the Path 