by Shania Twain
In a small house where emotions are running high, few secrets are hidden from little ears. Typically, my mother would nag, and my father would ignore her at first. As the tension mounted, so did the volume of their voices, then the verbal insults, until one of them would nudge or slap the other. From there it wouldn’t take long for things to escalate into full-scale physical fighting. We kids understood that money was often tight, and the root of many of my parents’ arguments was the stress of trying to survive financially.
My sisters and I usually cowered behind a closed door or in a side room where we couldn’t see what was happening, only hear when violence broke out. But, unfortunately, I recall this particular fight in our new home with plain, visual detail.
My mother was a featherweight and so easy to push around. Jerry had her on the bathroom floor by the toilet, and, grabbing her hair, he slammed her head against the side of the basin, knocking her out cold. I could see Jerry repeatedly plunge my mother’s head into the toilet bowl, then pull it out again. I remember wondering, Why is he trying to drown her when she’s already dead? I wanted to scream, “Stop, you already killed her!” I wanted to stop him, but I was too afraid. My mother was limp and lifeless. I cried for her and felt completely humiliated to see her so helpless, drenched with the water from the toilet and a wet piece of toilet paper dangling from her chin.
The enormity of that helplessness transferred to me, and I felt as limp as she was. I’d never seen anything like it before or ever felt such confusion or panic. Dressed in only our pajamas, my sisters and I watched from as far away as we could get: on the tiny porch on the outside of the entrance door, in the freezing snow that came up over our bare feet. We were freaking cold and freaking out, shivering from fear, with tears streaming, lungs screaming, red-faced, and scared shitless. I can clearly remember screeching at the top of my lungs as if someone were killing me personally. Absolute, bloody murder was ripping out of my throat. The life was gone out of my mother, and I felt as if my brain were about to burst from screeching so hard and so loud. I was in hysterics, crawling out of my skin with fear, feeling as helpless as my poor mother lay at the base of the toilet, seemingly drowned.
The disturbing scene continued to play out in front of me like a movie, framed by the open door of the bathroom. It was surreal, as if I were not really there, only looking in from somewhere else.
Suddenly, several big men in dark uniforms and heavy boots walked past us on the porch and into the house. Their hard soles clopping across the floor, the static-y voices on their radios snapped me back to reality. Someone, probably a neighbor, had called the police. They escorted my dad outside and into a squad car that had pulled up in the driveway. Much to my shock, my mother was not only still alive but coherent enough to convince the officers that she was “okay.” She was staggering and breathless but could speak. As I reflect on the memory, I recall how her hair clung to her head in random clumps, hanging down her face and neck, and the top half of her pajamas was soaked through to her skin.
Everyone was acting like it was going to be all right, almost not making enough of what just happened. My mother made as little of it all as possible, putting on a brave face, acting unshaken by her obvious state of distress. She would have said something like, “Everything is fine, officers, I’ll be all right. Thank you for coming. Have a good night.”
The end of the drama was quite swift once the police arrived. After breaking things up, they nodded and filed out the door, but what if my mother needed medical attention? Surely she should have at least been examined. No one was sent to check on her—or us, for that matter. We were traumatized, and the only person there to help us cope with the aftermath of the horrific events of that night was my beaten, broken mother. Today, forty years later, with the far greater awareness of spousal abuse and the victim’s tendency to downplay the violence, make excuses for the abuser—even blame herself for the offender’s actions—the situation would be investigated further and handled more thoroughly. Back then I was relieved that the police at least ended the fighting just by showing up. And with that, everything returned to normal. Until the next time.
As confusing and painful as it was to witness these battles between my parents, I was comforted knowing that I was not alone, that my sisters were there, too. We were all going through it together. And even though I was only four years old when family violence entered my life, it also occurred to me that my parents were caught up in it, and it wasn’t their fault. What I mean is, sure, I hated the violence while it was happening, but I didn’t hate them. I felt sorry for them. They were aware of how their behavior was affecting us—I could sense them eyeing us with worry even as they screamed at each other—but by the time things had degenerated into physical abuse, the two of them were just too far gone emotionally to be able to put out the fire they’d both had a hand in starting.
The guilt and shame they clearly felt after each incident, I sensed, weighed a ton; knowing us kids were watching must have been awful. I felt sorry for their shame and didn’t have the heart to hold it against them even at that very young age. Each time, I just wanted it to be over, behind us and forgotten. Once a fight ended, I only wished for life to go back to normal, as quickly as possible, like nothing ever happened.
I mean the good part of normal, when they weren’t fighting with each other, my parents displayed love and affection toward each other. My dad often winked at my mom deliberately when he knew we were looking, so we’d blush and get all coy. He enjoyed annoying her with surprise pinches to her backside. He’d come up behind her with his finger to his lips, hushing us to be included in getting the rise out of her. He openly complimented my mom in general, especially her legs, saying that they were beautiful and that she should wear skirts more often to show them off. My mother was openly flattered by my father’s adoration of her, and I sensed a genuine love between them. Although I wanted to protect my mom against my dad when they fought, I didn’t actually resent my dad for the fighting or blame him more. I felt they were both victims of the economic struggle, the key reason for the violent outbreaks, and that they both should have known better and were both responsible for letting their arguments get out of control. I did feel more sorry for my mother, though, because she was the physically weaker of the two, and therefore more vulnerable, but I didn’t feel she was any less responsible for instigating the commotion.
When my turn finally came to start school, the urge to follow my big sister suddenly dimmed once I realized I was to go spend my day with a lot of strangers. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but Jill seemed to enjoy school, and I was curious about what she was enjoying. I have always had an inquisitive nature, ready to explore and discover, but I was uncertain about sharing new experiences with people I didn’t know. I preferred to be alone rather than with strangers, and was quite content being solitary as a child. In fact, I am still very much like that now. Not lonely, but alone with my thoughts, emotions, and reflections.
That first day of school, I felt insecure and utterly panicked as my mother walked me into the first classroom I’d ever seen and handed me over to the kindergarten teacher. “Eilleen,” the woman instructed, “why don’t you go sit down on the carpet with the other children.” She would say something like “Go on now!” while gesturing for my mother to leave, before I could say anything about it. As my mother turned to walk away, the most furious hurricane of emotions swept over me. My face became hot, and my eyes welled up with tears that blurred her figure until all I could see was a dark, tall blob leaving the room. Just like that, she was gone.
I hated this! I was miserable and gutted that my mother could leave me with this lady I didn’t even know and kids I didn’t want to know. But what I did know was not to run after my mother and beg her to stay. I felt I needed to be brave and act like a big girl. I remember feeling that I was supposed to stay, my mother had to go, and that I wasn’t allowed to make a fuss about it. I felt the anxiety of separation from her and the intense struggle
not to show it.
The day got better as it went on. “Music time!” the teacher announced. We were allowed to rummage through the music box and pull out whatever instrument we wanted to play. There were sticks with ridges that you could rub together to make clicky sounds, a variety of shakers, tambourines, bells, and other noisy, percussive instruments. Now, this was getting fun! I enjoyed my first music session and couldn’t wait till the next one. Unfortunately, music time lasted only a few minutes each day; then it was time to spread out our blankets on the floor and take a nap. This frustrated me to no end, as it seemed that just as we got started playing music, it was already time to stop. I wanted to play with the instruments the whole day. It’s obvious to me now that my strong desire to create music—a true passion—was developing even then. This was my first experience of having my hands on musical instruments, and it was all I wanted to do.
By the time I graduated from high school, I had attended seventeen different schools. In fact, I didn’t even make it through kindergarten without our family moving not once but twice. It was difficult being the new kid so often, but I can see how I benefited from learning how to adjust to change.
I was seven when my parents had their first child together, Mark. My brother wasn’t even out of diapers yet before they adopted a second son. Audrey Twain, Jerry’s older sister, died shortly after giving birth to a boy named Darryl. There was no question about what to do under the tragic circumstances; both my mother and my father did not hesitate to take their nephew into our home. With that, the “Twain Gang,” as my mom used to call us—five children from two mothers and four fathers—was now complete.
A real blend of this and that, the Twain Gang was off chugging through life, a crazy, happy, sad, dysfunctional, destructive, loving, violent roller-coaster ride, to a head-on collision.
2
Timmins, 1971
In the summer of 1971, around the time of my sixth birthday, we left the Norman Street address for a small rental home on Bannerman Street on the east side of Timmins. In September I began the first grade at Mattagami Public School, where the principal’s name was Mrs. Partridge. I thought that maybe she was related to the singing family on TV’s The Partridge Family. The world was still very small to me at the age of six, so it made perfect sense—although I did question why “my” Mrs. Partridge lived in Timmins, Ontario, while the Mrs. Partridge played by Shirley Jones lived in a fictional small town in Northern California. It was hard at such a young age to consider that people with the same last name were not necessarily related. I thought the only Twains that existed in the world, for example, were us, and that anyone with the name Twain must be our relatives. The only other use of the word partridge I’d heard of at six years old was what I knew as a wild, medium-sized pheasant, hunted by locals in the fall. I was having trouble connecting all these long-distance dots. Although the United States was our next-door neighbor, to me it seemed worlds away, a country you read about in stories and saw on TV and in movies. I had trouble determining the difference between what was real and only real on TV.
On the school playground, a bold white line divided the boys’ area from the girls’ area; although our classes were coed, we were separated during recess. I’m not sure what the purpose of separating the sexes really was, but I assumed it was intended to keep the boys from kissing the girls when the teacher wasn’t looking. Mrs. Partridge would gaze down from her second-floor office window, which afforded her a bird’s-eye view of the entire playground, and anyone who dared to cross the line could expect to be hauled upstairs to her office for punishment. Don’t ask me what type of punishment, because I was never brave enough to find out. Mrs. Partridge scared me, even though I never had any particular reason to feel that way. The braver kids used to call her “the old bird,” but as a child I tended to avoid trouble and although it was only harmless naughtiness, I wouldn’t have been caught dead mocking Mrs. Partridge.
Once a week, we had show-and-tell first thing in the morning. Anyone willing to participate could get up in front of the class and share whatever hobby or interest he or she wanted. It might be something such as a stamp or coin collection, vacation photos, or a grandfather’s war helmet, but preferably something unique to that person. Although I was outgoing in many ways, I shriveled up whenever I was put on the spot or made the center of attention.
So I surprised even myself when I volunteered to sing a song for show-and-tell. I’d fallen in love with singing from the age of three. There was always music playing at home, although there was no one musical in my immediate family to influence me to become a singer. I just naturally sang along with whatever music was on. My earliest recollection of consciously singing was sitting in the field that stretched out behind my grandma’s Hoyle farmhouse. I used to sing “Baa Baa Black Sheep” and “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” repeatedly to myself. Actually, at first I just hummed the melodies, rolling the notes around in my mouth and enjoying the buzzing sensation of my tongue against my teeth until it tickled so much from the vibration that I had to stop, desperate to scratch the itchiness. And I was intrigued by the feeling of the resonance, how it seemed to fill the whole cavity of my head.
It’s common for vocal instructors to teach singers specific exercises and techniques that help develop voice resonance in order to improve sound projection, pitch control, and tone quality. A well-known vocal warm-up exercise, for example, entails creating a buzzing sensation in the lips and tongue while humming “Umumumumum.” Hmmmm, that sounds familiar! The tickle on the tongue and lips is the indication that the exercise is being done properly, that the vocalist is successfully resonating the sound. What I now know is an actual vocal technique was instinctively sound play for me at three years old. I’d discovered an internal instrument and was learning how to play it. I was finding my voice.
From that moment on, I sang all the time: to the car stereo (either the radio or the eight-track tape), whatever was playing around the house, with restaurant jukeboxes. Everywhere there was music playing, I was singing along. It was how I spent most of my recreational time, much in the same way that other kids my age caught butterflies in jars or collected lucky pennies in a tin. I listened to music and learned songs. I was in love with all the music genres I’d been exposed to as a small child. Rock, pop, folk, and country. I couldn’t have been more than four years old when “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother,” a big harmony-laden hit by the Hollies, came on the radio. I was struck by the profound message in the lyrics, agreeing with the sentiment, championing the words, thinking, Ya, everyone deserves a helping hand, understanding! The song’s meaning provoked an awareness in me of sensitivity toward humanity. I respected the singer for feeling so generous and tolerant toward others less fortunate and weaker than himself. I was impressed that he was so willing to help carry someone else’s heavy load. What a nice guy, I thought. I also interpreted that he might be implying that no matter where people are from or where they’re going, they are worthy of compassion, and this, to me, spoke out against what, of course, I know now as prejudice.
My mother and Jerry were not together yet, and still in the safe home of my grandmother, I had not yet experienced hunger, nor had I any sense of what it was like to be deprived of any basic necessities. Neither had I been introduced to the realities of a mixed-race family environment yet, especially not one of a social minority. In fact, I hadn’t even considered that skin could be identified by color. I believe I saw the last of my innocence when I was three. This was the last period in my life I remember living without fear, panic, and insecurity for the welfare of myself and those close to me. At this tender age, my voice was still fun to use, and I didn’t understand anything about the role of fathers because up to Jerry coming into our lives, I had no recollection of a father present, just my mother and my grandmother. I didn’t know anything about whether my mother was happy or not, nor did I worry myself about the future.
Music continued to grow as a passion for me both as a singer and
as an enthusiastic listener. On a purely sonic note, I was drawn by the sounds of the Supremes’ records. Every song was as exciting as the last in a long string of hits. Specific songs that stand out in my memory from that time were the Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations,” the Turtles’ “Happy Together,” “Crimson and Clover” by Tommy James and the Shondells, and one I couldn’t get out of my head: “Seasons in the Sun” by Terry Jacks. I was so sad for the singer, as in the song he was dying, and I especially felt his pain when he sang “Good-bye, Papa, it’s hard to die, when all the birds are singing in the sky.” Music moved me, and I was emotionally affected by the sounds and the storytelling. I remember people remarking, “Oh, listen to that tiny girl sing!” as I sang along with everything with deep emotion and sincerity. Not everyone was appreciative, though; sometimes I heard, “Eilleen, you’re getting on our nerves. Now stop singing!” I never did, though.
Not unexpectedly, my mother was my biggest fan. Now, my mother couldn’t sing to save her life, but she could tell that I had an ear for music. My singing made her emotional and often teary eyed. One time, when I was about five, the two of us were in the car together, and this new brother-sister duo called the Carpenters came on the radio. I was in awe of the smooth, silky depth of Karen Carpenter’s voice, layered with her own harmonies stacked with her brother’s voice, which created that luscious, distinct vocal blend they had together. The brother-sister sound poured out of the tinny car radio speakers like pure honey. Wow! No speakers could make the Carpenters sound bad. Hearing Karen sing always gave me chills.
