How do you put something to paper that was so traumatic you’ve tucked it away in that part of your memory that you never visit?

This is mine.  This is the darkest, most traumatic memory I can dredge up.

I was the oldest of four girls.  My father and mother were young when they had me and very inexperienced at life, coming from a very small community in South Dakota.  But my father always put on his bravado persona which made him rather cold and distant.  My mother never hugged me as she was afraid my father would reprimand her.  But I digress.

We moved to California when I was about nine years old.  I had a five-year-old sister and a fairly new baby sister so you can see my mother had her hands full.  And dad spent his time in the bars.  We moved into a new house in a subdivision of Whittier.  We were all elated as it was a new beginning for us and I hoped my parents would see me, would talk to me, would love me.  What I didn’t realize was that I would come to hate my life and I soon took on my father’s attitude. 

I am amazed that I survived.

Across the street was an oil field where there were active oil wells and old ones.  Some of them were open pits, black and dark and I knew they went all the way to hell.  That’s where my mother said I was going so I felt a sense of Déjà vu, as though I was committed, that I was going home.  And I spent most of my time there, in that field of nightmares.  So did homeless men who could have done terrible damage to a small girl and then thrown her down one of those holes to hell.  I never met one that was part and parcel to the Devil and, for that I am grateful.

My trauma though was not the solace of the oil field, the adventure of exploring but what should have been my safe haven, my school.  I was the target of some kids at school.   Of course, I had my father’s attitude and because of that, I could never tell anyone.  That would have been a sign of weakness. 

 I was also the teacher’s pet.  And the children resented it to the degree they would call me names.  My teacher would, at times, take me to her house to spend the night.  She was just lonesome I believe and needed company which was me.                                                               

THE SCHOOL

It was summer in California, and I had nothing to do.  I did have one friend, well kind of, and she and I met down at the schoolyard one hot day.  Nobody was there.  The school had a summer program where they showed movies and sold candy out of one of the rooms.  My friend and I were just wandering around the grounds, and I happened to pull on that door to the candy room.  IT WAS UNLOCKED!  The door opened and there before my eyes was a whole assortment of wonderful candy bars and other treats.  I knew it was wrong, but I took a candy bar as did my friend and we left.  Everything was in order at that time.

I never got candy, so this was a treat, but it was a STOLEN treat, so I took one bite and threw the rest away.  I even told myself God would not like me if I didn’t do that.  Who knew!

To my disbelief when we went back the next day and opened the door, there was the biggest, most disastrous mess we had ever seen.  Other kids had found out about the unlocked door and had totally destroyed that room.  They had evidently seen us and after we left, entered the room, and proceeded to tear it apart and steal everything not nailed down.  My girlfriend and I tried to clean it but it was impossible, so we left feeling bad for the school but not knowing what else to do.  Remember we were only nine or 10 years old at the time.

THE DETECTIVE

It was only a few days later that a strange man appeared at my door asking to speak to me.  He had a badge and wore a very impressive suit.  He was a detective.

We sat down and the first thing out of his mouth was “why did you do that?”  I thought he meant why did I take the candy bar.  I started to cry and for me that was the end of everything.  I was not allowed to cry in my house and crying was worse than dying. 

After he left my mother started yelling at me that I was a thief and a liar and she HATED thieves and liars.  My own mother hated me, everyone hated me for being who I was.

The worst part?  Those same kids  found the way to punish me for being teachers’ pet, for being myself.  And I loved my teacher.  She was beautiful in my eyes and the only one that EVER took the time to pay any attention to me.  But that fall when we returned to school, things totally changed.  I was so anxious to see her again, my only ally.  I went running down the hall to find her and there she was, as beautiful as I can remember.  But she was not smiling.  Surrounding her were those same kids that had lied about me to the detective, and they were smirking.  When I got to her, I knew something was wrong.  She had a stern look on her face and she asked me the same question as the detective.

 “Why did you do it Charlene?”  I had no answer and to this day it haunts me that I couldn’t tell them the truth.  It haunts me that those kids got away with it and hurt me in the process.  I wonder still today if those same kids have taken that vicious attitude on to adulthood.

I am a good person, I have ALWAYS been a good person and, in my eighty years I have never taken another thing.  Trust me, it’s not worth it.

Done and done!