by Shania Twain
I remember one friend the same age as me named Charlotte, a girl with long, golden braids. She lived on the other side of the alley behind our house. Her mother was a meek, dusty-gray-haired woman who gave me the impression that she had neither the energy nor the time to wash her grungy kitchen floor. One Saturday morning, I went to play at Charlotte’s house. Just as I arrived, her mother was rushing out the door to go to work. Instead of playing, Charlotte and I were assigned the chore of scrubbing the floor while her mother was gone. Our seven-year-old method was to fill up a pail with hot water and a half quart too much of Javex bleach (that’s the brand name for Clorox in Canada) and flood the surface with it until it was about a half inch deep from corner to corner. Next we swished the mop around for a while, squeezing the dirty water into the bucket. Last but not least: let it air dry.
Proud of our little housekeeping duty, we were ready for some play. Charlotte’s father was still in his bathrobe, watching TV in the bedroom. He called us in and invited us to jump on the bed, which we were eager to do. As we jumped up and down, giggling, his bathrobe opened to reveal an ugly, dangling organ surrounded by a ghastly bush of hair. The man made no effort whatsoever to cover himself; he just lay there coolly, clearly aware that he was intentionally exposing himself to a couple of little girls, one of whom happened to be his own daughter.
I had never seen anything like this sausage-like thing before, and it scared me. Picturing the scene still gives me shivers. I ran out of the house and kept running until I was standing in our kitchen, gasping for breath. No one asked me where I’d been, nor did I volunteer the information. It never would have occurred to me to tell my parents about the frightening experience; to be honest, I didn’t want to burden them, as things were stressful enough in our household. Mom and Dad have enough to worry about without having to worry about me, was my thinking.
I was, however, concerned for Charlotte and felt guilty for leaving her there with her father, and his gross, disgusting thing, without telling anyone. I knew there was definitely something wrong with that scenario, but I didn’t have the courage or maturity to know what to do except feel uncomfortable and confused. I believed there was nothing I could do for her, and I believe that she had her problems, I had mine. That sense of helplessness is how I would describe how I felt during many crises growing up, with me consciously detaching myself from the suffering, even though I felt every bit of it. I did my best to distance myself from it mentally, a mind-over-matter-type approach. All I felt I “could” do was to move forward, look ahead and not behind. As a parent, I know that if my child told me about a similar experience at a friend’s house, I’d march right over there and bonk the guy on the head, then report his ass to child protective services. I’d like to think that had my mother known, she would have been just as alarmed—although instead of bonking the child offender on the head, she probably would have bonked me, to try to scare the wits out of me so I never went back there again. That would have been her way of protecting me, and I suppose it would have worked, although I was sufficiently freaked out without her help. No way was I ever going back to Charlotte’s house.
When my grandmother died in 1972, my mother was devastated and thrown into intense grief, crying all the time and at the drop of a hat. I can’t imagine how lost and alone she must have felt with three little girls and a new baby, trapped in a violent, roller-coaster marriage with barely enough money to get by. Now she had lost the one person who had always been there for her. Everyone loved my grandma Eileen, including my dad, who always spoke of her with immense respect, but no one more so than my mother. And certainly no one was as dependent on her as my mother was; just the mere mention of my grandmother would bring her to tears.
Not long after my grandmother died and my new baby brother began to crawl, we moved to a basement with more living space. Although it was roomier—at least my sisters and I now had our own bedroom—I didn’t like it so much. Our bedroom carpet was so thick with skank that I didn’t want it touching my bare feet. I decided we needed to pull up the carpet and throw it out. I’m not sure what my parents thought of the idea, but they didn’t try to stop me, in any case. When I began peeling back the dirty thing, what I saw made me want to throw up on the spot: what seemed like zillions of disgusting, squirming white things, like moving rice, bending and squiggling on the bare floor where the carpet had been. I’d never heard of maggots before, but I knew that they were insects, and I knew that insects shouldn’t be living under the carpet. Rather than complain, I slapped the filthy carpet back down and simply pretended that our revolting little guests weren’t there. The way I figured it, better for them to be living under the floor covering and out of sight. The carpet remained.
We rented the apartment from an elderly couple that lived upstairs. They were always sweet to me whenever I’d pass them on my way to the corner store or to the neighborhood church to light candles for my grandmother and our little dog Peppi, who’d also died not long after her. I missed them both so much and found comfort lighting a candle for each of them along with saying a prayer that I wished they hadn’t gone, and that I hoped to see them again someday. I believed the candles would help light their way to the Heavenly Father, to God Himself. And feeling that my candle was very important, I visualized the flame literally helping them see their way through what I imagined was somewhere dark.
One afternoon on my way back from the church, the old man from the upstairs apartment called to me from his chair on the front porch. “Come here!” he said with a friendly wave of his hand.
Although I was shy, I didn’t want to be rude, so I slowly entered through the white picket gate and climbed up to the porch. “Would you like some candy?” he asked. I nodded yes. I was a bit nervous about being alone with him and accepting candy, but I didn’t see the harm. After all, he wasn’t a complete stranger.
“Why don’t you come inside while I look for the candy?” he suggested. Ordinarily, his wife joined him on the porch, literally every day. I noticed that she didn’t appear to be around.
“Where is your wife?” I asked innocently.
“In the hospital,” he replied softly. I felt sorry for him, thinking that maybe his wife would die like my own grandmother had so recently. As I was going through these sad thoughts, he found what he was looking for. Placing the candy on the table, he told me to come sit on his lap. I did, and he let me take one piece. Being in that house, eating candy while sitting on his knee, was the most unnatural, uncomfortable position I’d ever been in. I just wanted to turn into liquid and drip through the floorboards down to our basement apartment below.
Suddenly I felt his rough hand on my leg. Then, slowly but in one fluid motion, he slipped it underneath my T-shirt and onto my tummy, before settling on my chest. I hadn’t started developing yet and was too young to relate my chest to sex in any way, but I knew this wasn’t right and froze. How was I going to get out of this grip I found so repulsive? Break away from the dirty feeling of being held up against this man who was making me so anxious? I didn’t know if I should resist; I mean, he wasn’t hurting me, and I’d accepted his offer of candy. My hesitation stemmed from not being able to determine where the boundary was between responding to my instinct for suspicion and fear, and my urge to be a good little girl, showing respect and kindness by obeying my poor, elderly neighbor, whose wife was sick and could die. Suddenly, an idea:
“I’d better go see if my mother needs me for something,” I piped up, trying to act like it was an innocent thought, not an excuse he would see through. It took a lot of courage to stand up and walk out of that house, as I knew I was defying an adult’s authority. Once I headed for the door, I just kept going and didn’t look back, hoping with all my might that he wasn’t going to try to stop me. That was close, I thought. Close to what, exactly, I didn’t know at the time; I just knew that something so wrong was happening and that I was vulnerable and somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be. Somewhere dangerous, and I’m just glad I had the pres
ence of mind to figure out a way to get out of there.
Once again, I didn’t report this incident to my parents or to anyone else. I actually blamed myself for getting into the situation in the first place, probably because I felt that’s how my mother would have reacted if I’d told her. In retrospect, it strikes me as ironic that my mother was my excuse to escape but not my refuge; also the fact that I lied to the old man, hoping he’d be alarmed by the prospect of my mother expecting me, when the reality was that she had no idea where I was and wouldn’t have worried about me unless I wasn’t home after dark. I was on a very loose leash—too loose, I feel now. I can think of several occasions when I was very lucky that something more traumatic or dangerous didn’t happen to me while I was farther away from the nest than I should have been at my age.
It goes without saying that parents are responsible for their children’s well-being. We can’t leave things to chance, or expect our kids to “know better” (not without our teaching them, that’s for sure), or assume that they’ll always report potentially dangerous scrapes to us. Children want to please their parents, and, right or wrong, they may withhold information for fear of disappointing their mom and dad or making them angry. I’m not advocating holding our kids’ hands everywhere they go, but there needs to be regular communication and not so much distance that they feel neglected. You know, children may act annoyed at being checked on and monitored, but as long as you can say honestly that you aren’t smothering them, such parental attentiveness actually makes them feel loved and secure.
Certainly my mother and my father went through periods where they were aloof and even negligent. Yet I can’t say that I didn’t feel loved. I just accepted the fact that they weren’t always capable of being there for me to the extent that I wished they would be. They didn’t choose to be that way. Circumstances—mainly poverty—prevented them from being the ideal parents that, in their hearts, they probably had hoped to be. I honestly don’t believe that I’m making excuses for them, although I can see how some may think that I’m rationalizing their behavior. Life isn’t like a TV series. There is no perfect parent. I do realize, however, growing up the way we did, we probably saw our parents’ shortcomings earlier than perhaps other kids do. I feel that we were certainly exposed to too much, too young.
But then, even with my son, although I have the best intentions, I’m sure I’m not always the mother he expects me to be. I have to say that the understanding I’ve reached about my own mother and my father has allowed me to be more forgiving toward myself when I fall short of my own expectations as a mother. No parent can be perfect in every situation or all the time (and this applies to our other roles in life as well, be it spouse, relative, or friend), no matter how much he or she may want to be or try. Ultimately, I’ve realized that my responsibility is to do my best, whether I succeed or not. My parents deserve the same degree of understanding and compassion that I afford myself and those around me. Anyone who gives a good, honest effort wins my respect every time, and in that regard, my mother and my father deserve my thanks.
3
Tomboy
Moving day again, just months later. I’m not unhappy about it, though. To be leaving our maggot-infested bedroom in the basement apartment belonging to the dirty old man? I’m packed and ready to go! Especially since we’re relocating to a city called Sudbury, located about four hours south of Timmins. I’ve never lived in a city before, so I am excited about the prospect of a place with real skyscrapers. This will be the year I get into my first physical fight and win my first gold award of excellence in track-and-field, as well as discover the excruciating pain of breast development. I won’t realize it until later, however, that Sudbury is a small city compared to Toronto or New York, for example, and that I wouldn’t find real skyscrapers there.
The apartment house on King Street in Sudbury was an upgrade for us compared to our last two houses in Timmins. By that I mean it was clean, new, and spacious enough for me to not be embarrassed if a friend came over.
King Street was where we welcomed the fifth child to the family, when my parents adopted Darryl, my father’s nephew. Audrey, my dad’s sister and the one who first introduced my parents, took an overdose of pills and unfortunately succeeded at taking her own life. Darryl was just a baby, still in one-piece sleeper pajamas (you know, the kind with the enclosed feet), and wasn’t walking yet when my parents took him in. I remember enjoying having another baby around and thought he was soooo cute. I nicknamed him “Bay,” and it stuck as a cutesy, short form for baby. The five of us kids’ bedrooms were in the basement of the apartment house, with the boys sharing a room, Jill tucked into a makeshift bedroom that was really the furnace room with extra space for a bed, and Carrie and I continuing to share a room, sleeping in a single bed.
We didn’t live in the Sudbury house for more than one school year, but it seemed like a lot happened during that time. One of the most painful memories of that period, at least as far as I was concerned, was the excruciating swelling of my breasts, signaling the start of puberty, even though I was only going on nine years old. One of the first days at my new elementary school, I accidentally bumped one of my new little bumps on the corner of my desk. It generated such a sharp, piercing pain, my eyes welled up with tears.
I somehow suppressed the urge to cry, though, because I was much too tough a tomboy to whine about a little discomfort. I mean, I used to challenge friends to thigh-punching contests to see who could withstand the hardest blow, while at night I ran around with the boys pulling pranks, like sneaking into parking lots and letting the air out of people’s tires. I was the only girl and much more concerned with fitting in with the boys than making friends with girls. One day, when my mother asked what I thought I wanted to be when I grew up, I announced that I wanted to be a man.
I didn’t mean literally. But as I edged toward adolescence, I imagined myself growing up to be a solid, strong, athletic woman, not a soft, fussy, screechy one. So this new shape that my body was about to take on may have presented serious pain, and my eyes watered, but I was going to ignore it and hold it back.
One thing I learned quickly about playing tough, though: there’s always someone tougher. One day another tomboy, two years older than me, and bigger, taller, and stronger, challenged me to a fight after school. I was scared and went through the whole day with knots in my stomach. This girl was a real bully—the genuine article—and there was no way out of it. At the sound of the dismissal bell, I tried to avoid her by dashing out the school doors and hightailing it for home, but she eventually caught up to me. The “fight” took no more than ten seconds: she shoved me to the ground, then sat on me, squeezing all the air out of my lungs. I couldn’t breathe, and I panicked. The girl was just too heavy to budge. I guess she sensed my desperate struggle for air and realized it was time to get off me. Or maybe she was just bored, since I didn’t present much of a challenge. In any event, it was over, and I was relieved to be alive.
Being a nine-year-old tomboy, I didn’t fuss much about my appearance like some of the other girls did. “Didn’t fuss much” might be putting it mildly: I used to skip brushing my teeth, not really understanding the point of maintaining a Colgate smile. Oddly enough, I ended up becoming friends with my former nemesis, the toughest tomboy in town. She invited me over to her apartment for a sleepover, and I remember her mother handing me a toothbrush before bedtime, since I hadn’t brought my own. I found it odd that they actually had a bedtime brushing routine, for as with so many other things, my parents were far more lax about our caretaking.
Truthfully, I learned more about personal hygiene from school and friends than I learned at home, because my parents didn’t fuss in that way. I learned to be very self-sufficient with personal care. If I ran out of clean socks, for example, I had to hand wash a pair myself. I often went to school with oily hair, and it was only after a classmate insensitively told me how dirty my hair was—wrinkling up her nose like she didn’t want to get too close�
��that I realized I’d better start shampooing more regularly.
I frequently longed for the more traditional family environment: Mom prepares breakfast in the morning, then sends the kids off to school with a hand-packed lunch, maybe even making some home-baked cookies ready as a snack for when they come home from school, then shoos them off to play till dinnertime, reminding them to stay nearby where she can keep her eye on them. No sooner does Dad appear in the doorway than Mom serves up a delicious dinner. The whole family sitting around the table, discussing their day while they eat. For dessert, a tall glass of milk accompanied by homemade pie or cake. Then time for a bath and brushing teeth, followed by a bedtime story, a kiss on the forehead, a tuck of the sheets, lights out, and the words “Sweet dreams” called out softly from the bedroom doorway. This was the dream childhood to me. The dream care and comfort of family life. This was what it seemed other families had, and I longed for it.
In our house, Jill read Carrie-Ann and me our bedtime stories. My dad did often tuck us in, though probably more to stop our chatter. “That’s enough, girls, time to go to sleep,” then it was lights out as he left the room. We tended to talk back and forth for as long as we could till my dad would poke his head back in and say, “I mean it, now, you three, not another word.” He treated us all equally, I thought, though Mark was his only biological child out of the five of us, but he went out of his way to make sure we felt like his own. We girls were in charge of taking care of ourselves and shepherded the boys through their daily routines as well, which is probably why I wasn’t always as clean as I should have been. We kids tended to our own cuts and scrapes, which I considered sort of like badges of honor. I was proud of my war wounds, being a tomboy, especially the ones I earned without showing that it hurt. I was damned if I was going to be caught crying over a cut. This stiff-upper-lip attitude, however, did make me miss out on attention I probably needed at times, the kind of fussing that lets you know someone cares. Instead I felt singing was really the only thing that got my parents’ attention.
