by Dave Pelzer
“Oh, please! Enough with the dramatics. I told your father, and now I’m telling you: I wouldn’t have taken him back for all the tea in China. You have no idea . . .” Mother wandered on.
Little did Mother know, weeks before enlisting in the air force, the day I had my records sealed, my juvenile officer, Gordon Hutchenson, allowed me a few hours to read through my files, which were in two separate folders and over ten inches thick. I spent the entire day reviewing reams of county paperwork, various forms, and even scribbled legal sheets. One report claimed that after I was removed, a social worker had made several attempts to visit Mother, to the point of pleading just to have Mother open the door. All efforts by the county were met with Mother’s numerous excuses until she escalated to threats. Once, she slammed the door in the face of a social worker before laughing from the other side. Back then, as a teenager with the report in my hand, I could not believe her gall, how she seemingly got away with everything. I turned to Mr. Hutchenson, asking how Mother could get off scot-free when the county should step in, rescue my brothers, and either have Mother arrested or be given some sort of psychiatric help. I wasn’t out for blood, but I felt that if everyone within social services had told me how outrageous my situation was before I was placed into foster care, my brothers wouldn’t have to live through the same hell.
Gordon had told me, “I agree with you, David, but back then in 1973 things were very different; your mother was never brought up on a single charge. We couldn’t get her on assault, willful harm against a minor, failure to provide, or, in my estimation, attempted murder. Understand, there weren’t a great deal of PCs to protect kids back then in ’73. Even now, as we enter the 1980s, there are a majority of folks who are in total denial or believe parents are doing nothing more than ‘disciplining’ their children. Believe me, this whole thing’s gonna blow up in our faces—these kids are gonna grow up, go on a rampage, wreak havoc on everything and everyone, contaminate themselves with every substance known to man, whack their kids as they were; then at the end of the day, when they face the judge, these people will either blame their deeds on society or plead that they were abused as kids, which of course made them the way they were. That’s when there’ll be an outcry from society to change the laws to protect children like you. Mark my words, it’s gonna happen. We’ve come a long way, but we still have a ways to go.”
“What are PCs?” I inquired.
“Penal codes. That’s why we couldn’t remove your brothers or even slap your mother on the wrist with a warning. So in essence, as you say, she got off scot-free. On the flip side, because of cases like yours, there are now laws on reporting abuse, intervention, the works. A lot has happened in the last six years since you’ve been ‘placed.’ Nowadays your mother would be hooked, booked, cuffed, and stuffed, if you get my meaning,” Gordon had stressed.
Digging further through the file, reading a rare interview Mother had given before my court hearing, I came across an official form stating one of the reasons she “may have” been distraught was she suspected her husband was having an affair with a woman whom was one of Mother’s closest friends. Her defense also included how difficult it was for her to keep up with the housework while being left alone to raise four boys—the report corrected that it was five—while she worried sick when her husband was either at work or “God knows where,” whenever Father disappeared for days at a time drinking with buddies from work. Being alone with no one to console her might have, Mother claimed in the report, made her tip the bottle and fly off the handle a little more than she normally would.
As I rubbed the dried sweat from my forehead, I still could not fathom even now as an adult, after eight years after reading the documents, that my father had had an affair. As a mature person, I fully understood that anyone was capable of anything. So, as Mother continued to play the role as the helpless victim in her never ending life tragedy, I felt the affair accusation was another sinister excuse she had strung out for so many years.
“You still have no idea of what I’ve been put through,” Mother repeated, but this time with reddened eyes. “You think you had it bad? Well,” she huffed, “back in my day, my mother, that person you’re staying with, well . . . when I was a girl, she’d . . . she’d lock me in a closet for hours at a time. She did! She most certainly did!” Mother announced with a burst of tears. “And sometimes she wouldn’t feed me . . . for days. Back then it wasn’t like today, when children at school have a lunch program. And if that weren’t enough, not one day, a single solitary day, passed that my mother didn’t berate me, boss me around, telling me what to do and when to do it; what friends I could and couldn’t have over for visits. My mother!” she bellowed. “My own mother! Can you imagine!”
With my chin resting on my hand, I nodded my head. I could in fact understand. As Mother cried, she appeared lost in time, reliving her mistreatment at the hands of my grandmother. I could not help but think if what Mother said was true, she had in turn done the exact same things to me, but for far longer durations and in such obsessive, vindictive ways.
As much as I wanted to believe Mother’s sobbing was partly show, in an odd way her confession did make perfect sense. From what I had learned, people like Mother abused their children in the same manner they were abused; thus becoming a product of their environment.
But only a few years ago, during the summer of 1983, when I had visited Grandmother, she steadfastly maintained that she had not mistreated Mother in any way as a child. Could it be, I thought, by Grandmother’s or even society’s standard during her time, it was not abuse but no more than stern discipline?
Unless, I wondered, Mother was devious enough to concoct a story about her childhood in order to take the blame off her, transfer it to her mother, somehow freeing Mother from any accountability?
“You know,” I gently inserted, “I spoke to Grandma and . . . well, I’m not pointing fingers . . . but she was adamant that she never, under any circumstances, abused you.”
“Well,” Mother coughed as she rolled her eyes, “look at the source. You know how she is. Who are you going to believe?”
The source, I repeated to myself. Look at the source. At that moment in time I wasn’t sure who did what to whom and what for. Okay, I thought, maybe Grandmother was overbearing. When her husband passed away, leaving her to raise two children in the middle of a depression, Grandmother had to be stern. As a young woman, Mother might have craved her independence, tried to get out from under Grandmother’s ruling thumb, then somewhere down the road became addicted to booze, got married, had kids, while still carrying some resentment . . . that ate at the core of her soul. With my fingers rubbing my temples, I was totally confused. But, I reflected, in the final analysis did it truly matter? My only concerns were that I make every day count, while trying to be the best person I could possibly be, and to make certain that my son would never be exposed to anything but a safe and loving setting. Period.
Imagining my son, Stephen, with his bright blond hair and giggling smile, made me want to recapture the essence of “Mommy” I had always longed for. I wanted to fall on my knees, wrap my arms around Mother’s waist, as if she still held a lifeline to my soul. And by my openly granting her amnesty, it would free me from being tied to my past and allow me to close that part of my life once and for all.
I stopped myself before I gave in to my foolish emotions that I always seemed to wear on my sleeves. For years I had felt I was either overly proving myself or giving myself away in the vain hope that someone would like me. As if the acceptance of other people were going to make all the difference.
Although I harbored no hate or ill feelings against Mother, breathing in the fumes from her lair, while surrounded by objects from our mutual past, made me feel nothing but pity for the person who was once my mommy.
Abruptly I stood up. “Thank you for allowing me to visit . . . Mrs. Pelzer.”
Mother’s facial expression changed, as if she were deeply saddened. “Come on now
,” she said, smiling, “for old times’ sake, call me . . . call me Mom,” she nearly pleaded.
I meant no disrespect, but I had to give myself some shield of protection. All I could do was extend my hand repeating, “Thank you, thank you for your time.”
“Please?” Mother begged while she took my hand, but this time with a hint of Mommy’s voice from years ago. I held my breath. I could feel the fingers from my left hand shake as I started to become light-headed. Part of me so desperately wanted to collapse in her arms, peer into her eyes, and hug her as if our lives depended on it. A moment later, although there was only an arm’s length between us, I knew Mother and I were worlds apart.
With a slight nod of her head, she let go of my hand. Mother understood. And yet I couldn’t move. “If this means anything, the one thing I can give you is this: You,” I said, pointing, with tears seeping from my eyes, “you made me strong. Because of . . . you made me want it more.”
Mother cocked her head to the side. By her expression, I knew I had hit a raw nerve. Mother sucked in a deep breath, and I could feel the pressure build inside me. But a second later she let it pass. With the slightest nod, she understood my compliment.
As I walked down the stairs leading to the door, Mother burst out, “David!” With my hand on the doorknob I spun around. “Yes?”
“Do you love your son?” she asked.
Feeling choked up while a dam of pressure built up from behind my eyes, I stated, “Yes! With every fiber of my being!”
“Just remember,” Mother cried, “at one time I did . . . I loved mine, too.”
In the car I couldn’t stop myself from shaking. A bone-chilling sensation crept up my spine. Once away from Mother’s house, I pulled the car to the curb, opened the door, and threw up.
CHAPTER
11
A PERSONAL MATTER
Not a single day passed since my visit with Mother that I did not think about her. Whenever I found myself alone, my thoughts always turned to her. Usually I ended up wondering that if someone had stepped in early enough to actually dig at the root of the problem, then maybe things wouldn’t have ended as they did. As Stephen grew from a toddler to a young boy before my eyes, I became haunted by Mother’s condition. Part of me felt torn between the life I had with my son and the darkness of Mother’s jail, as if someday, without warning, I could join her world. As if no matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, I was destined to become like her. I felt in order to protect Stephen, I had to be a better person. I had to do more.
In a sense, Stephen was slowly becoming not only my outlet but my savior. When not at work, I’d squeeze in every minute I could to be with my son. Rushing home after a flight, I’d strip off my sticky flight suit, shower, then race outside to watch Stephen splash in his tiny play pool. When he wasn’t playing in the water, he’d play baseball. Dressed in his brightly colored shorts, tank top, and no shoes, Stephen would clutch his oversized plastic red Bam Bam bat and cry out that it was time for “brasebrall.” Since I had never played ball or any other games with my father, I was in complete awe of the smallest thing Stephen and I did together. Once, as the sun was setting, with Patsy across the street gabbing with her friends, I pitched a slow underhand ball to Stephen. He whacked the ball from the middle of our yard and across the street, zooming over Patsy’s head and landing a few feet behind her. As Stephen ran in quasi circles, with his hand smacking the tree, the bumper of our car, or anything that he believed resembled a base, I hollered to tell Patsy of Stephen’s accomplishment.
Since Patsy had seemingly missed Stephen’s monster hit, I sprinted across the street to tell her and to pick up the ball. As I reached the sidewalk where Patsy stood, one of her friends, Debbie, grabbed her own toddler by the arm and yanked the girl toward her. “Put the ball down, it’s not yours! You stupid little shit! You’d better listen up or I’ll whack ya till ya do!”
Bending down, I thanked the little girl, Katie, as she dropped the ball into my hand. I could see her holding back tears. I stroked her head, turned up to Debbie, and said, “Katie’s a real cutie!” Debbie gave me a hostile look before huffing at me, then at Patsy. Maintaining my stance, without pushing too far, all I could do was smile at Katie, stroll back to Stephen, and take him inside.
Later that night in bed, the incident with Katie continued to gnaw at me. For months I had heard Debbie lash out at Katie and then the sound of Katie’s crying. At times when I played outside with Stephen, I’d catch glimpses of Debbie, between her chain-smoking puffs, screeching obscenities at Katie while the girl played. Reminding me of myself as a child, Katie always responded by slumping her shoulders. But whenever Stephen played with Katie, Debbie seemed overly kind. When I brought up the subject to Patsy, she agreed about Debbie’s behavior, but brushed it off by saying, “Debbie’s just a loud person.” Since my upcoming deployment to Japan was only days away, I pleaded with Patsy to keep an eye out for Katie.
As much as my heart went out to little Katie, my mind was on my lengthy trip. As always, the evening prior to leaving, after packing, I sat down with Patsy to ensure all the bills were taken care of and she had enough money left over for anything extra. Saving the best for last, moments before heading out the door, I’d cradle Stephen in my arms while rocking him to sleep from the music of my stereo.
I didn’t give Katie any thought until over six weeks later, when I flew back home from Japan. While scanning a newspaper I came across an article about a stepfather who had “accidentally” murdered a boy, then buried the body. Years later when the family moved, both the stepfather and his wife dug up the remains before placing the child in the trunk of the car. In court the man’s defense was not only did he have a problem with drugs and his temper, but he was a victim of abuse at the hands of his father. I muttered out loud, “Can you believe this? This guy’s getting ten years for offing his kid, which means he’ll be out in . . . five, maybe six years for good behavior . . . ’cause he was abused? Man!”
Standing beside me, a senior officer from my squadron overheard my outburst. After striking up a conversation about the article, Major Wilson slid closer, telling me his wife volunteered with kids who had been abused and were now in foster care. “These kids come from scummy backgrounds. You wouldn’t believe the stories my wife tells me. I gotta tell ya, it’s heartbreaking. It’s obvious you don’t hail from that arena, but if you ever get a chance, maybe you could do something—talk to the kids, make ’em laugh, whatever. The smallest thing would mean the world to them.” Patting my shoulder, Major Wilson added, “These kids, they have nothing. You, David, could make a difference.”
Before Major Wilson had even finished, I had already made up my mind. In the last several months it seemed that every day I either read, watched on television, or saw firsthand from my neighbor something that related to child abuse, as if there were a sudden outbreak of children being brutalized. Since Stephen’s birth I had become more sensitive and aware, but as Major Wilson spoke I realized the subject matter had always swirled around me, but I had conveniently shut my eyes. “Yeah, Major, I could do something,” I said, committing myself. “I can imagine what it’s like . . . for them.” Besides, I said to myself, “it’s time. It’s about time.”
Within a period of a few months, before Stephen’s third birthday, I found myself volunteering for practically anything throughout the state of California that had to do with kids who came from troubled backgrounds. I began by speaking to older teenagers in foster care about not becoming swallowed up by their negative past, while praising them for overcoming their situations by their own determination. “And if you can do that as a kid, without any help, without a college degree, without any training, coaching, or guidance,” I’d ask them, “what on earth could you now, as a young adult, not possibly achieve?” A few times a tough-acting teen would interrupt, asking, “Hey, man, what do you know? You ain’t one of us. Man, you’s a fly boy, what do you know?” I stopped for a moment to formulate my reply. “All rig
ht, I have no right to tell you what to do. I may not know exactly what every one of you has gone through, but I do know what’s it’s like to walk a few miles in your shoes.” So in order to qualify my message, I felt I had to reveal parts of my childhood. I felt I owed them that much. And whenever I gave an illustration, I always told the audience what I had learned from the situation that somehow made me a stronger, better person. I had no need for bells and whistles or any other hype. I always spoke from my heart, treating every group like young adults instead of children. I always gave them total respect while challenging them to better themselves. My premise was never one of being a victim or exposing a dark secret for sympathy, but one of resilience.
Drawing further from my past, as I began working with adults who specialized with youth at risk, I offered reasons why some children who come from dysfunctional backgrounds react as they do and possible ideas to turn troubled kids around. To my horror, I discovered workers in these organizations rarely received any commendation, so as a matter of honor and respect, I would praise the individuals who struggled to make a difference with children.
Before I could give the matter much thought, I was overcoming one of my greatest anxieties. I was learning to talk to anyone, at any time, at any level. I became so consumed with my efforts that I conquered an enormous burden that had plagued me since I was a preschooler. But it didn’t happen overnight. Before a presentation, alone in the car, I’d talk out loud, at various levels, paces, and tones to the point at times my voice almost gave out. At home, after tucking Stephen into bed, I’d sneak into the bathroom, close the door so not to disturb Patsy’s sleep, and stand in front of the mirror for hours at a time, watching how my lips parted when I’d try to pronounce certain words. At work, I’d crack open my flight manual to learn long-syllable words; I also developed a technique to instantly replace a word if I became nervous and could not pronounce it correctly. Sometimes moments before a program, I’d become extremely nervous to the point of excusing myself and rushing to the bathroom to throw up. I quickly learned not to eat anything prior to speaking. Between my flight schedule and my present quest, I’d sometimes go without food for days. At times I’d still stutter, but somehow I’d find a calmness, tap into the audience, and let things happen. When the subject matter became too serious, I’d fire off comical impersonations, one after another, while maintaining my focus of driving my message home.
