Dear Readers, I am standing for the courage and the tenacity of this nineteen-year-old woman. In 1968 there is no term for post-traumatic stress. Her support system helping to ferry her through these rocky straits are the letter from Alice and the two books. I honor the time it has taken for her to reach this point in her story. I am holding space so that she feels safe in saying out loud, what happens next.
She is in a space between what was and what will be.
Thank you for being here.
70
My way is so simple to feel, so easy to apply,
That only a few will feel it or apply it.
If it were not the lasting way, the natural way to try,
If it were a passing way, everyone would try it.
But however few shall go my way
Or feel concerned with me,
Some there are and those are they
Who witness what they see:
Sanity is a haircloth sheath
With a jewel underneath
from The Way of Life
according to Lao Tzu
translated by Witter Brynner
I look forward to hearing Funny Man climb the steep stairs up to the porch. It’s Tuesday and he is crossing the wood-slatted floor approaching the kitchen door. I laugh as his Birkenstocks enter first; a quick two-step in through the door. Tada! His fuzzy hair is wrapped in a red bandana, signature khaki beige cargo shorts, brightly patterned camper shirt. He grabs a mug, fills it with cold coffee off the stove, sits down at the table. I enjoy seeing his face. He smiles broadly and asks how I am. He is the only one who does that. I share my story, mainly I feel ready to go back to work. He agrees to get me up the hill to meet the shopkeeper. Then he dives in telling me what the rest of the morning holds. We travel across town to Cleveland Hopkins Airport for the weekly pick-up of the two suitcases at the baggage claim. The radio is on. The windows are down. We sing ‘Hey Jude’ followed by ‘Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.’ With the suitcases stowed in the trunk, he drives back across town and heads past the street where the apartment is taking me to the shop. He pulls up and parks at the curb saying he’ll wait here at Irv’s Deli.
I pass under the striped awning and enter the tidy storefront passing the white wicker flower box filled with a tumbling assortment of bright yellow annuals. The owner, Lovely Lady, welcomes me in and immediately begins telling me how happy she is to have me starting my new job. I am moving in the direction of my star. I can feel it.
A single sentence from my early morning homework reminds me:
“I always think about what I am going to do,
and what I want to happen.”
Lovely Lady describes what my duties will be, primarily hiring me to manage the shop. She is excited to have her time freed up allowing her to visit estate sales seeking inventory. While she is showing me her favorite collection of antique gold pocket watches her new boyfriend, dressed in leather pants, a sweeping cape and a wide-brimmed hat comes through the door causing the brass Indian bells to chime and echo. He swoops in like a Hollywood movie star, scoops her up, and dramatically leans her back toward the wide plank wood floor giving her a Leading Man kiss. Her right leg points toward the ornate pressed tin ceiling. She comes up for air laughing and flushed a deep pink from the downward tilt. Leading Man is a terrific character. He is friendly and makes me feel part of the family. Turns out he too works for Medicine Man. I am treated well. They have been given the word.
On Wednesday as I walk through the village to the laundromat on assignment, the old-timers sitting on their porches smoking cigars, raise a hand in a short snappy salute. Some wink. The grandmother in her garden smiles at me with a toothless grin as she cuts back her flowers. I enjoy the walk as well as the time with Handsome Man and Beautiful Girl. There is sadness and loss in him yet that is covered over by a need to stand his ground. I say to myself, ‘I grok his pain.’ Beautiful Girl and Handsome Man now have increased status. His father was assassinated. Beyond the politics of the neighborhood, there appears to be something meaningful and deep between them. I notice her style. She is all his. She is attentive and kind. She says, ‘Baby this’, and ‘Baby that.’ He is not just any guy from the neighborhood. His father held a high-ranking position. Now his dad is dead, killed by a sniper on the 16th hole at an east suburban golf course. With this turn comes an assumed transfer of position. Privilege. Rank. Neighborhood royalty.
I watch what is going on. My growing up years held a chorus of mom repeating her mantra: ‘This too shall pass.’ I honestly believe that I am going to find my way. I am going to be my artist self. I am going to follow my star. Many times, with my eyes open or closed, I see myself walking at The Farm. I hear Alice say, “and wherever you walk, I’ll be with you…my strength is vast, and From Beyond.”
Back in my room, I read from the doctor’s book:
What Is the Secret of “Rapid-Healers”?
…one easily recognizable characteristic which all
the “rapid-healers” had in common.
They were optimistic, cheerful “positive thinkers” who not only expected to “get well” in a hurry but invariably had some
compelling reason or need to get well quick.
They had “something to look forward to” and not only
“something to live for” but “something to get well for.”
…they epitomized those characteristics and attitudes
which I have previously described as the “Success Mechanism.”
Later I read:
Dr. John Schindler, in his famous book, How to Live 365 Days a Year … pointed out what he believed to be
the six basic needs that every human being has:
-
The Need for Love
-
The Need for Security
-
The Need for Creative Expression
-
The Need for Recognition
-
The Need for New Experiences
-
The Need for Self-Esteem
Friday afternoon I am ready when Medicine Man comes by, leather briefcase in hand, to collect his money and me. We go out for dinner at an impressive neighborhood restaurant, a known gathering spot for the most influential members of the Underworld. Medicine Man is in his element. We are led to the best available table. He pulls the chair out for me, orders me a glass of expensive wine, leans forward to whisper that he will be back in a few minutes. He wanders among the tables shaking hands, stopping to talk with members of the old guard; well-dressed cigar-smoking elderly men nod my way as Medicine Man indicates where he is seated. I am becoming recognizable. It is understood that no one will bother me.
After dinner, we make the regular drops at a series of shooting galleries. The last stop is the small house where the dogs snarl and snap at the floor. The Man in Charge greets me with a sparkle in his eye engulfing me in a bear hug that reeks of his strong scent mixed with spices. I am familiar with the routine: drugs are sampled, a pimp arrives near midnight with a line of dazed girls following an evening of prostitution, guns are displayed, a variety of weapons laid out on the dining room table.
On Saturday nights I am dressed to go out. Tonight I am in velvet bells and an embroidered mirrored vest made in India worn over a halter top. Medicine Man dresses in a kind of uniform, expensive slack and oxford shirt with an open jacket, sometimes made of leather, always buttery soft penny loafers. He leaves the dark green Jaguar with the valet attendant and ushers me into the venue. We are led to the private lounging area of some green room filled with bouquets of welcome to town flowers, buckets of champagne, trays of cut fruit, vegetables, crackers, and exotic cheeses. I hang out with whatever well-known rock band is touring through town before and after their concert. Medicine Man’s briefcase ever at the ready as business goes down.
After the concert back at the apartment, Medicine Man walks me to the kitchen door. This is unusual. Every other weekend he has given me a hug and a light kiss on the cheek as I exit the car at the front curb. This time he parks and walks me up the driveway, his arm around my waist he guides me up the back stairs, holds the door open and steps inside behind me. He stays the night. He does not ask. He has given me a place to stay, which now includes the use of my body. I count the thirteen years between us for the first time. He is so old.
In the morning while he meets with D at the kitchen table I read.
How to Make Your ‘Nerves’ Work for You
The word “crisis” comes from a Greek word which means, literally, ‘decisiveness,’ or ‘point of decision.’
A crisis is a fork in the road.
One fork holds a promise of a better condition __
the other of a worse condition … every crisis situation is two-pronged.
Concentrate on what you want.
Feel that you can make it happen.
I recognize the fragility of the situation. The boys from the neighborhood who work for Medicine Man come by a few times a week. They hang out on the porch and in the kitchen. They drink beer and smoke. They are all friends having grown-up with D. They want to stay close to the money and the opportunity that they know the Medicine Man offers. This is their neighborhood, their turf. They constantly tell stories that prove they own these streets. Nothing happens here without their approval. Their fathers and grandfathers sit back and smoke cigars in the restaurants making deals in the backrooms while the boys are on the corners. In training. No one rents or even walks on the sidewalk without their okay. They are laughing. They are standing around in the kitchen all puffed up and proud. They are telling D how they have ambushed a college student. The semester started two months ago, the student was caught taking the most direct route to the university, unknowingly crossing through ‘their village’. They stalk and grab pulling him into an alley. They brutally beat him to ‘teach him a lesson’. He has the ‘wrong color’ skin. He has no right to show his face here. They constantly boast about being ‘on patrol’. They pursue any car driven by a black man who dares to make a wrong turn ending up on one of the two main roads that intersect the neighborhood. These others are “invaders.” I hear them declaring, “We have to protect our women.”
The apartment has only one door that comes into the kitchen. Off the kitchen are the small bedrooms, mine is beside D&K’s. The bedrooms face the street. The door into the tiny windowless bathroom is in the opposite corner of the kitchen. It is not possible to leave or even sit outside the kitchen on the long roofed porch without passing by anyone who happens to be hanging out around the table most likely tilted back balanced on the two back legs of a wooden chair. When D’s ‘brothers’ come by I stay in my room. I have experienced the way these men look at girls. I see them out on the street constantly combing back their hair and calling out. Most of the neighborhood girls bother them back. There is a give and take, a language that I do not know. The guys dress in sleeveless white t-shirts or slinky Italian silks with rolled sleeves, the front buttons half-open, lots of jewelry, roving eyes. They know what belongs to them.
I hear the loud voices of the ‘brother’s’ moving down the steep back stairs. Their voices are drowned out by a passing commuter train. They cluster out on the street below my bedroom window. Horns honk underscoring the shouts back and forth. Loud mufflers rev repeatedly. Windows down, radios blare, always ready to arrange a drag race. Girls with big hair, tight shorts, cats ’eyes, and red lips linger seductively. Whistle-laughs, smoke-rings, and combs running through slick-backed greasy pompadours check out the girls. A slow-moving parade of cars passes by filled with those who own these streets. A scene from my sister’s favorite movie, Westside Story, is playing live.
A long time later, after the street grows quiet, once the kitchen air is clear of the dense smell of cigarettes, weed and the echo of their obscenities I go to the sink, run water into the battered aluminum pan and make a cup of peppermint tea. I think of The Farm. I think of ‘Stranger in a Strange Land.’
Aside from these episodes, my days are protected. I am not being bothered. I can heal and begin to work for Lovely Lady. I enjoy the adventure of leaving this place and going up the hill. Lovely Lady is delighted by my competence having worked in retail since I turned fifteen. My artist’s eyes come alive within this exotic place. There are clothes in the most elegant and lush fabrics, a very select collection taking up only one corner in the back. I bought my velvet pants and mirrored vest on my initial visit. The rest of the splendidly arranged space feels museum-like. Hardwood handcrafted antique bookcases filled with titles to explore. Jewelry cases, many with wavy glass fronts, hold hammered silver earrings, opal, turquoise, sterling rings, leather and antique silver bracelets, stone pendants, many turquoise, leather, silver-tipped bolo.
On the lower shelves of the longest display cabinet lay bulbous wooden musical instruments carved or inlaid with mother of pearl and silver wire. Amazing animal kites hang from above, their cloth tales wave slowly near the wooden paddles of the ceiling fans. I ask what the instruments are and she answers with a word I have never heard. “Those are antique sitars.” she says, smiling broadly, “They are made in India and are difficult to find. This one is rosewood inlaid with abalone shell and sterling $1500.00 and the one beside it, intricately carved dark mahogany, sells for $2500.00. Aren’t they incredible?”
My world is small and highly charged, things are feeling electric.
I look forward to this new part of my experience. That night I read myself to sleep:
The Secret
The secret lies in the attitude of fearlessly accepting the challenge and confidently expending our strength. This means maintaining an aggressive goal-directed attitude, rather than a defensive, evasive, negative one.
“No matter what happens, I can handle it, or I can see it through __ rather than, I hope nothing happens. Keep your goal in mind.
The essence of this aggressive attitude is remaining goal-oriented. You keep your positive goal in mind. You intend to “go through” the crisis to experience, to achieve, your goal. You keep your original positive goal, and do not get sidetracked into secondary ones ___ the desire to run away, to hide, to avoid__ by the crisis situation.
Attitude of fight rather than fear or flight. If your attitude, or goal, is to go forward, if it is to make the most of the crisis situation, and win out in spite of it, then the excitement of the occasion will re-enforce this tendency __ it will give you more courage, more strength to go forward.
Don’t mistake excitement for fear. Any normal person who is intelligent enough to understand the situation becomes “excited” or “nervous” just before a crisis situation. Direct it toward a goal. Direct excitement and nerves toward a goal.
It is dark before dawn. I am deep asleep. Am I dreaming? I have a feeling that something is in the room with me.
I hold my breath.
I hear movement outside and then my bedroom window is being raised.
The piece of wood that holds the frame (so fresh air can come in) falls. I do not move but my eyes open wide. A form climbs through the window in silhouette. The figure looms large and approaches my bed whispering, “Shhhhh. Shhhhh. Don’t say a word.” His hand covers my mouth.
Dear D…
I am still here – taking it all in…
It takes a while sometimes for what I want to say to come…
Sometimes I have to stand back a bit with open fingers covering my eyes, reading, as if not really wanting to see – like watching an intense movie where you almost know what’s coming next before the character does, and you’re saying ‘don’t go there, please don’t go there.’ But of course the story unfolds in the way that it unfolds…
I can’t believe you actually *lived* it! You are such a strong, determined, talented woman, that out of such trauma has come such wonderful creativity and celebration of life! How amazing you are! That doesn’t happen to a lot of people who have been traumatized in this way. The nineteen year old’s story sounds a lot like my sister’s story, which did not turn out as well… As I think I may have told you… But then, that’s her story…
With gratitude for telling your story. It is having such an impact on me…
Heart Hugs – MM
Thank you MM ~
You, as a Reader, bring a helpful perspective to the way in which this girl’s story might be viewed.
As when you write: “reading, as if not really wanting to see – like watching an intense movie where you almost know what’s coming next before the character does, and you’re saying ‘don’t go there, please don’t go there.’”
The ‘movie loop’ describes a dilemma that trauma leaves in its wake; the replay. Going back again and again and seeing if it could have played out differently. These unconscious ‘replay urges’ seep into the cellular memory and pop up when least expected … these ‘flashbacks’ add additional panic layers to the original trauma unless and until the cycle can be broken and a new default ‘memory’ gets installed.
I have learned a tremendous amount of ‘reprogramming’ through numerous modalities though it is NLP, (Neurolinguistic Programming) that has been the turnkey. NLP taught me to insert the most viable ‘edit’ to the original scenes in this ‘rite-of-passage’ movie.
Yes, thank you for your response. I wondered how this “replay”, this revisiting the trauma was impacting *you* – “panic layers to the original layer” as you say…It must be intense… Am so glad you have been able to “reprogram” through NLP… Wishing you much peace… _/\_
Dear MM ~ Fifty-two years of focus upon creative self-expression has prepared me to step aside and let this young one tell her story. Remember when the dog lunged for the squirrel and my boot caught the tree root, the fall shattered my shoulder. It was Dec. 2018.
I asked myself while sitting motionless in bed (not moving for three weeks as the bones would begin to mend) when I had endured anything that might help me. It was then that my nineteen-year-old began to remind me that indeed, there was a time.
She had a story to tell that would be supportive of the deep healing required to mend what the trauma surgeon referred to as a “Humpty Dumpty break”. The implication being that ‘All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.’ The surgeon suggested that we would set as our goal the “eventual ability to touch the top of the head with the right hand. this would allow washing the hair and putting dishes away on the lowest shelf.”
I listened to him and thought to myself, ‘He doesn’t know me.’
I embarked on my healing with complete focus, allowing the younger self to do her work of reminding me of the courage and the power required to heal. truly heal.
Within the one year allotted for the shoulder to heal, I worked diligently and I have regained 98% mobility.
Each week, as she goes deeper into the experience of this one year, I take my time.
I listen.
I often do not want to hear.
Yet I have made a commitment to be her scribe.
I watch my anxious part.
I watch my embarrassed part.
It is okay to feel anxious and embarrassed.
I watch the part that was trained to hide.
These emotions are not felt like a judgment, they are felt like what it is to be human.
If your doctor knew this story, he would most certainly have had different expectations for the outcome of your bone breakage!
There is symbiosis here: Not only the 19 year old helping you heal the break but the broken bone providing a pause ‘break’ that allows you to spend time healing this deeply-held trauma…I think of the painting of the “Two Fridas”. I see your 19 year old and your current self sitting side by side, joined by a ‘heartery’, the healing flowing in both directions.
Hello Dear WC ~
I smile. perhaps the surgeon doctor would have thought differently, indeed. However, looking at the x-rays he had to give his most realistic and critical review.
I really value what you say, “There is symbiosis here: Not only the 19-year-old helping you heal the break but the broken bone providing a pause ‘break’ that allows you to spend time healing this deeply-held trauma.”
Yes. She has never had a time/place/opportunity to bring her story to the surface. I had always been, at whatever age, and at whatever stage of healing, to take the time to listen to her story.
I can see the painting of the “Two Fridas” and again, you give me another level of engagement.
THANK YOU!!
Thank you for trusting your readers with an important and impactful part of your life story. You are a strong woman who has survived and is thriving . Who knows how these words will help another with her past and her feelings about it. You really take your readers there with you.
Thank you, Lisa, Good to see you here and I agree … we never know how our story might touch, move, or inspire another.
This is one reason why I stand with this younger self. Her strength and her commitment to thriving have been unstoppable.
I am honoring her and doing my best to show up for her. I hope that her story will help others remember: it is possible to triumph over obstacles in your path.
Yes, I agree. You are a master story teller. It is so hard to believe that this is non-fiction. I feel like I am reading the more intriguing novel I have ever read!
How can one more bad thing happen to this innocent 19 year old???
Hi, Kay ~ Thank you. Yes. It is hard to believe. That’s why the story not been told before now. I pushed it away and only shared bits and pieces. It has never tracked the entire year. The nineteen-year-old is not making any part of this up.
If anything she seems to be a master at condensing the story.
We are rounding the corner on the year and she is attempting to organize events into a place for closure … with still more trials before that happens.
Thank you for being here, Kay, and for your words, “I feel like I am reading the more intriguing novel I have ever read!”
This being a new art form and also a new type of collaboration for me as an artist … your comment means a lot.
“He stays the night. He does not ask.” A sigh left my body as I felt the 19 year old transition from a naive sense of being contained safely in medicine man’s “shelter” to a realization that she has opened her body to him for invasion. She, with her youth, beauty, and gentleness, is the shelter for his sexual exploitation. He thinks he is a healer, but he is caught in sickness. His chivalry is predation. His kindness a cover.
Now who is coming in the damned window? There isn’t enough exotic retail stock in the world, jewelry and antique sitars included, that wouldn’t make me want to hit that person on the head with that fallen piece of wood.
Hi, Donna ~ I appreciate your reflection on the young woman and her experience.
I am stepping back so that she feels safe to say what she knows about this time.
It was a different time. There was an electric quality to the atmosphere … no one could sense into what was happening politically and socially the air was charged for the change. With that, there was also resistance in the air.
As there is now.
That time was in many ways similar to now. Look at all the references we see happening to the “tumultuous sixties.”
I pray that young people, girls turning to womanhood particularly, have guidance and nurturing. Our youthful brain is still developing at that age. We are vulnerable and there is a susceptibility to outside forces that are beyond our control.
This younger self was not unlike a butterfly caught in a spider’s web.
Yes. Agree. She is like a butterfly caught in a web in that there is a buoyant sense of freedom to her musings that about finding her own way that are at odd with the snare she finds herself in. She seems to think that she is in charge of this adventure and is moving forward with plans of her own. How shocking it must be to realize she is part of plans that others have made for her. I am guessing one of the reasons she went back to Medicine Man is for some more LSD. Maybe she is trying to find her way forward by reproducing that same high, and all the exotic experiences and high powered people she encounters are as trance inducing as a drug for such a young mind.
I love that you are stepping back. What happened happened. By recounting these events the 19 year old is mapping out the terrain of her undoing and the path via which she walked beyond that terrain. Yes, I too pray, actively and passionately, that young woman get the guidance they need. Was watching a little bit of the Jeffrey Epstein story last night and thinking of you. We are so vulnerable in our youth. Your story matters so much.
Thank you for your reflections, Donna, each reader’s witnessing brings support and sponsorship to the experience that the nineteen-year-old did not have available at the time. Indeed, we are so very vulnerable in our youth. And when there is no safety net the danger can be real.
The young girl did not go “back to Medicine Man … for some more LSD. Maybe she is trying to find her way forward by reproducing that same high.” She did not take LSD again. There was no interest. She was not seduced by the “exotic” … she was attempting to learn how to get on track. Following the ‘Alice model’ seeing how life could be filled with beauty and art. She has been damaged and has many healing years ahead. She is looking for gardens and natural surroundings.
Donna Drozda, thank you so much for patient response to my cynicism and lack of deep understanding. As someone with an additive personality who is easily enchanted by visual beauty, I am a prejudiced witness! I look forward to hearing more of your story and refraining from presumption. Love and appreciation, Donna
Dear Donna ~ Cynicism seems appropriate and natural when we hear of this type of disenfranchisement. I watch my own lack of deep understanding and recognize how easy it is to be seduced into presuming.
This young woman is on a mission. I can attest to her trauma and also to her desire to accomplish the ‘Alice model’. Above all else, aside from everything, she wants to keep her promise. She wants desperately not to fail herself. She wants to be the artist she was born to be.
A year earlier she was able to declare to the adults in the room, “I didn’t do anything wrong and I don’t deserve to be punished.” A year later it seems that life is indeed punishing, yet she has kept sight of a larger view.
❤️
Thanks, Janice ~ I appreciate you being a witness.
Well, now I am holding my breath, too, Donna! You are a master at pulling us fully into your story to the point that we are there, everywhere, with you as you go through all your experiences. So tell us, how are we supposed to get through the next week, waiting to hear the next chapter of your cliffhanger life??? After all you have been going through at such a young age, I can only continue to hold my breath and hope that you are not about to have more undeserved and unwanted trauma added to your life! What a grand storyteller/writer you are! I hope you take it on as a new, added direction/expression in your life! Sending love, admiration and a warm hug to you………
Hi Marianne ~ thank you so much for your comment. I too am grappling with this week and what is happening next. I truly appreciate your wish, “I can only continue to hold my breath and hope that you are not about to have more undeserved and unwanted trauma added.”
How the words will come together for the next part is still to be revealed. I show up every day and listen to what this young woman has to share. This next part is terribly raw.
I also really want to thank you for saying, “What a grand storyteller/writer you are! I hope you take it on as a new, added direction/expression…” I am in a brand new territory here … being the scribe of her story. Where it will go is unknown.
I thank each and every reader from the bottom of my heart for being here now and helping this young spirit to be released.