'Til It Happens To You
I was six when I met Brother H. He was often invited to our family dinners. It was not an uncommon occurrence. I knew at least ten brothers or priests. Most I could take or leave. They would come for dinner and talk with my parents. I was raised in an extremely religious Catholic family. All were kind to my sisters and myself. There was one brother whom I did not like. I cannot recall his name but I can see his face clearly. He was a "toucher" and I did not like him. He never touched me inappropriately but his hands were always cold and I found his scent of bay leaf to be unappealing. I have one clear memory of him turning my oldest sister upside down and her nervously laughing. I don't know where this memory comes from, only that afterwards she fled the room. What stays with me is the look on my father's face when this happened. Something flickered across it. It wasn't anger, really. It was more like....concern or worry. He was uncomfortable but not to the point where he felt he needed to step in. The memory slides away as quickly as it comes and I can't recall anything else regarding it.
But, I will never forget Brother H. He was a giant of a man, probably at least 6'4. He was large...not fat...but large. He wore a hearing aid and I had never seen one before. His speech was understandable but you had to listen carefully as it had an odd sound to it. My mother explained to me that he was 75% deaf and that this was why he was hard to understand sometimes. He could not hear himself speak.
I adored Brother H. He was not attractive physically. In fact, he was a rather ugly man. His features were puttyish on his face, as if someone had molded his big nose, thick lips, and heavy lidded eyes out of clay. He liked me best. That was probably what sealed the deal for me. He often brought candy bars for my sisters and myself and he would never fail to single me out and ask me about school or a book that I was reading. Once he brought me a paper doll set and I was speechless with happiness.
A paper doll. Like a real paper doll. There was a blonde girl in a plain white romper on a thick cardboard page. She had so many clothes to choose from! A lovely blue checked dress with a matching purse. A pair of pink pajamas with little sail boats on them. A pair of dungarees with a white shirt and even a little white bandanna to wear with it. Shoes. Black patent leather looking ones for her dressier outfits. Pink slippers with little white bows on the toes. Blue sneakers. She even had a cowgirl dress complete with a cowgirl hat, boots, and a lasso that unfortunately ripped in half as I tried to pry it out. I taped it back together. And, best of all, she had a little dog. A little Toto of a dog with shiny copper penny eyes and inky black fur.
I had never owned a real paper doll set. Our paper dolls were cut out of the Sears catalogs that came in the mail and my sisters and I would construct whole families from them but they never quite fit. There would be a blonde dad in a sportcoat paired with a dark haired woman in capris but because the pictures were not uniform in size, it was not uncommon for the woman to be a few inches taller than the man. Sometimes their "children" were as tall as they were, looking like giantess babies and toddlers.
So, having a real paper doll with different outfits and even a dog was a wonderful gift. The front of the paper doll book said her name was Pretty Patty but I changed her name to Pam after Pam Hollister, a favorite girl character in a series of books that my mother read to us called The Happy Hollisters. I had a sister with the name Pat and there was a girl in my class called Patty whom I did not like, so a change had to be made.
I loved Pam and her little dog, Toby. I imagined a whole life for her. She lived in West Virginia and was a well loved only child who went on lots of adventures.
I was giddy with gratitude to Brother H for this gift. I even sat on his lap and allowed a few cuddles. I was not usually comfortable behaving this way with men other than my gentle father. My uncles were not cuddlers and I had no brothers. I was not particularly comfortable with men.
Brother H kept coming to dinner and sometimes he and my parents would go to a movie afterwards. He never brought me any other lavish gifts, but he always seemed to have a peppermint in his pocket or a stick of (my favorite) Blackjack gum.
I was seven years old and preparing for my first communion. My mother had procured a dress from one of her sisters as my older sister's dress was too small. This dress was lovely and it fit me as if it were made for me. It came with a veil that had little pearls in its crown. When I tried it on, I felt beautiful and swirled in a perfect circle. My mother immediately admonished me not to do this as the dress was poofy and when I twirled, my underpants were shown. We carefully put it away.
Brother H came for dinner that evening. I asked my mother if we could show him my dress. I wanted to try it on, but she said that we could just show him the dress, although she allowed me to wear the veil. I proudly wore the veil and showed Brother H the dress. He ran his finger over the soft sateen and said that he knew I would look so pretty in it. I carefully carried it back to the closet and my mother took the veil off of my head, smiling down at me.
I suddenly remembered that I wanted to show Brother H what I was planning on giving my mother for Mother's Day this year. It required us to go outside and to the side of the house which was ringed with lilac bushes. I whispered this in his ear and he asked my mother if he and I had time before dinner to go outside so that I could show him something special. She said sure. Ten minutes, though. Be back in ten minutes.
We went outside and I pulled him to the little cemented gully in between the house and the bushes until we were about halfway down and surrounded by foliage. Here was where I had found moss growing. My father collected rocks of all kinds, and I had selected a rock that was about as big as a biscuit. I knelt down, pulling him with me to show him that I planned to take up the moss carefully and cover the rock with it. This would be her beautiful Mother's Day gift. Not the most practical gift in hindsight, but as a child, it seemed ideal.
He took my hand and gently slid it into the front of his pants. I was like a frozen rabbit, too stunned to speak or move. My hand felt something as hard as the rock I had been holding. Then, his hand over mine, he began to make me move it back and forth. I was confused, not sure what he was doing. I looked up into his face and my curiosity immediately turned to fear. He was not looking at me but had his chin tilted up, looking at the sky. It was his mouth that terrified me. It was open, teeth showing, and he was panting, breathing hard, and making ugh ugh noises. I tried to withdraw my hand, but he was stronger and continued to make me rub him. With a sudden horror, I realized that I was touching his penis. I had not really seen a penis before, so I wasn't completely sure. I had seen a baby's penis but that was it. Still, I knew. And I knew that this was very wrong but he wouldn't let me go. Eventually, I felt something damp and Brother H's breathing slowed and then he yanked my hand out of his pants and dropped it, leaning hard against the house.
I started to stand and he pulled me down next to him. In a not unfriendly voice, he told me that I must not ever tell anyone "what you just did." That if I did, I would not be able to make my first communion as this was a sin. A terrible sin. I sat mute. Horrified.
It never once occurred to me that this was not my fault. All I kept thinking was that my parents would be so ashamed and so upset if I could not have my first communion. And what of my classmates? Would I have to sit in the church and watch while they made their communion and everyone would know that I was a terrible sinner, so dirty that I couldn't make my communion?
He said nothing more and neither did I. We stood up and walked to the house. Walking to the back door, he held it open for me and I squeezed gingerly past him, doing everything possible not to touch him. As I walked into the kitchen, my mother said, "There you two are! Go sit down with your boyfriend, now." My cheeks burned. He was NOT my boyfriend. Just looking at him made my stomach turn over with revulsion. I went into the bathroom and stuck my hands under the hottest water I could stand. It wasn't enough. The soap in the bathroom was Ivory. My hand didn't feel clean enough.
My father had a bar of Lava soap that he kept by the kitchen sink. I ran into the kitchen, grabbed the soap and began scrubbing my hands as hard as I could. It was an abrasive soap that made my hands feel raw and I needed that. Afterwards, I walked slowly to the dining room table and discovered that, as usual, my mother had made sure that I was seated right next to Brother H. My sister was on the other side and I squirmed into my chair, so close to her that I was practically on the rim of my seat. I didn't want to even breathe the same air as he did.
I don't know how I got through that dinner. I don't remember what we ate. Strange, the details memory allows you. I do remember that after dinner, it was my job to help with the drying of dishes and I was glad to be away from him. I said nothing to anyone. I kept thinking of that communion dress, that veil. What he had made me do. Except, instead of thinking of what he had made me do, I thought of it instead as what I had done. After cleaning up, I told my mother that I was sick and went upstairs to the room that I shared with my sister. I laid on the bed, completely still. I was terrified that he would find an excuse to come upstairs and make me do that to him again. I listened to every noise until, relieved, I heard him taking his leave. My mother called me from the bottom of the stairs and when I didn't answer, sent my sister up to get me. I screwed my eyes shut tightly, pretending to be asleep. I heard my sister enter the room and then leave to tell everyone that I was sleeping.
He left. I took a long shaky breath.
I never told anyone. I made my first communion. Brother H was there but I avoided him. There was a loud crowd at our house so it was easy. After that, he came less and less to dinner. I was careful never to go near him. I would greet him with a soft hello and then retreat as far as I could until he left. I don't know if my parents noticed my sudden aversion to him. If they did, they probably thought that I had outgrown him. He never made any overtures to seek me out again and little by little, he went from being a frequent guest at our home to an occasional one.
The last time I saw him was after my father died. I was holed up in my father's den, arms around a seat back pillow that smelled like him. I sat in his rocking chair, wrapped in a blanket. The den door opened and my mother came in with Brother H. I think she had the misguided notion that he might be able to comfort me. Instead, I screamed at the sight of him.
"Please leave me alone. Go away! PLEASE!!" He backed out immediately and my mother, even in her deep grief, looked at me in disappointment, shocked that I would speak that way to clergy. She didn't scold me, though, and left.
I have never felt more alone in my life. I had never told anyone and now the one person whom I saw as my protector, the person that I should have told, was gone. I felt that my father was with me at that moment and silently prayed for him to keep Brother H away from me forever. I never saw him again.
I didn't tell anyone about what happened until I was a teenager. I told a family member. I was not believed. I was told that I always did have a big imagination and that I must have had a nightmare or something and just imagined it. I learned a valuable lesson that day. Even those who are close to you might not believe you. Best not to tell.
Later, long after I met T, I finally told her. She believed me. She was horrified for me. I started crying and then stopped.
"Do you know that this is the FIRST time that I have ever cried over this?" I managed to say. She didn't answer. She just held me and told me that I was safe now. She said it over and over.
"You're safe now."
A few months later, I decided to look Brother H up. The internet was in its infancy, there wasn't the information available that there is today but I found him. He had died in a monastery in Italy several years before. I don't know what I would have done if he had been alive. Confronted him? I'm not sure. I'll never know now. I do know that it made me feel better just knowing that he was not alive anymore.
Now, I am putting this story out there. It has been brewing in my head for days, spiraling up because of the Kavanaugh fiasco. I know that I am not alone because the internet is now much more fluid and open and I see a lot of women are experiencing memories of their own that have come snaking up. We are a large group. I am not in a small minority. I am in a large group. There are so many of us. Most of us, either because of shame or fear, have remained silent for years and years.
But, I totally got it when Christine Blasey Ford could not remember the exact month or how she got home from a party. Memory, as I said, is very strange.
I remember the moss. I can't stand to even look at moss anymore. I remember the color of Brother H's pants. I can't remember what I was wearing. I remember Lava soap in a soap dish on the right corner of the kitchen sink. I remember those pearls on that veil.
I remember that I never played with that paper doll again. That I gave it all to my little cousin Theresa. All the clothes. The dog. The lasso held together with scotch tape. I could hardly stand to look at any of her outfits or her cardboard cutout smiling face with the golden curls.
I watched the smug men interrogate Dr. Ford. I watched Judge Kavanaugh weave and bob. I believed her. I still do. And I have seen women in my own family come prancing up with genuine anger that Dr. Ford could hurt this man so. As if going on national television was something Dr. Ford did because she wanted a little attention.
I know better. Because, as Lady Gaga so beautifully put it:
'Til it happens to you, you don't know
How it feels
How it feels
'Til it happens to you, you won't know
It won't be real
No, it won't be real
Won't know how it feels....
And do me a favor? If you must hold on to your ignorance, don't do it around those of us who have experienced this kind of thing. Because we are holding in a lot of pain and you are just another piece of idiocy that we have to deal with. Take it somewhere else.
But, I will never forget Brother H. He was a giant of a man, probably at least 6'4. He was large...not fat...but large. He wore a hearing aid and I had never seen one before. His speech was understandable but you had to listen carefully as it had an odd sound to it. My mother explained to me that he was 75% deaf and that this was why he was hard to understand sometimes. He could not hear himself speak.
I adored Brother H. He was not attractive physically. In fact, he was a rather ugly man. His features were puttyish on his face, as if someone had molded his big nose, thick lips, and heavy lidded eyes out of clay. He liked me best. That was probably what sealed the deal for me. He often brought candy bars for my sisters and myself and he would never fail to single me out and ask me about school or a book that I was reading. Once he brought me a paper doll set and I was speechless with happiness.
A paper doll. Like a real paper doll. There was a blonde girl in a plain white romper on a thick cardboard page. She had so many clothes to choose from! A lovely blue checked dress with a matching purse. A pair of pink pajamas with little sail boats on them. A pair of dungarees with a white shirt and even a little white bandanna to wear with it. Shoes. Black patent leather looking ones for her dressier outfits. Pink slippers with little white bows on the toes. Blue sneakers. She even had a cowgirl dress complete with a cowgirl hat, boots, and a lasso that unfortunately ripped in half as I tried to pry it out. I taped it back together. And, best of all, she had a little dog. A little Toto of a dog with shiny copper penny eyes and inky black fur.
I had never owned a real paper doll set. Our paper dolls were cut out of the Sears catalogs that came in the mail and my sisters and I would construct whole families from them but they never quite fit. There would be a blonde dad in a sportcoat paired with a dark haired woman in capris but because the pictures were not uniform in size, it was not uncommon for the woman to be a few inches taller than the man. Sometimes their "children" were as tall as they were, looking like giantess babies and toddlers.
So, having a real paper doll with different outfits and even a dog was a wonderful gift. The front of the paper doll book said her name was Pretty Patty but I changed her name to Pam after Pam Hollister, a favorite girl character in a series of books that my mother read to us called The Happy Hollisters. I had a sister with the name Pat and there was a girl in my class called Patty whom I did not like, so a change had to be made.
I loved Pam and her little dog, Toby. I imagined a whole life for her. She lived in West Virginia and was a well loved only child who went on lots of adventures.
I was giddy with gratitude to Brother H for this gift. I even sat on his lap and allowed a few cuddles. I was not usually comfortable behaving this way with men other than my gentle father. My uncles were not cuddlers and I had no brothers. I was not particularly comfortable with men.
Brother H kept coming to dinner and sometimes he and my parents would go to a movie afterwards. He never brought me any other lavish gifts, but he always seemed to have a peppermint in his pocket or a stick of (my favorite) Blackjack gum.
I was seven years old and preparing for my first communion. My mother had procured a dress from one of her sisters as my older sister's dress was too small. This dress was lovely and it fit me as if it were made for me. It came with a veil that had little pearls in its crown. When I tried it on, I felt beautiful and swirled in a perfect circle. My mother immediately admonished me not to do this as the dress was poofy and when I twirled, my underpants were shown. We carefully put it away.
Brother H came for dinner that evening. I asked my mother if we could show him my dress. I wanted to try it on, but she said that we could just show him the dress, although she allowed me to wear the veil. I proudly wore the veil and showed Brother H the dress. He ran his finger over the soft sateen and said that he knew I would look so pretty in it. I carefully carried it back to the closet and my mother took the veil off of my head, smiling down at me.
I suddenly remembered that I wanted to show Brother H what I was planning on giving my mother for Mother's Day this year. It required us to go outside and to the side of the house which was ringed with lilac bushes. I whispered this in his ear and he asked my mother if he and I had time before dinner to go outside so that I could show him something special. She said sure. Ten minutes, though. Be back in ten minutes.
We went outside and I pulled him to the little cemented gully in between the house and the bushes until we were about halfway down and surrounded by foliage. Here was where I had found moss growing. My father collected rocks of all kinds, and I had selected a rock that was about as big as a biscuit. I knelt down, pulling him with me to show him that I planned to take up the moss carefully and cover the rock with it. This would be her beautiful Mother's Day gift. Not the most practical gift in hindsight, but as a child, it seemed ideal.
He took my hand and gently slid it into the front of his pants. I was like a frozen rabbit, too stunned to speak or move. My hand felt something as hard as the rock I had been holding. Then, his hand over mine, he began to make me move it back and forth. I was confused, not sure what he was doing. I looked up into his face and my curiosity immediately turned to fear. He was not looking at me but had his chin tilted up, looking at the sky. It was his mouth that terrified me. It was open, teeth showing, and he was panting, breathing hard, and making ugh ugh noises. I tried to withdraw my hand, but he was stronger and continued to make me rub him. With a sudden horror, I realized that I was touching his penis. I had not really seen a penis before, so I wasn't completely sure. I had seen a baby's penis but that was it. Still, I knew. And I knew that this was very wrong but he wouldn't let me go. Eventually, I felt something damp and Brother H's breathing slowed and then he yanked my hand out of his pants and dropped it, leaning hard against the house.
I started to stand and he pulled me down next to him. In a not unfriendly voice, he told me that I must not ever tell anyone "what you just did." That if I did, I would not be able to make my first communion as this was a sin. A terrible sin. I sat mute. Horrified.
It never once occurred to me that this was not my fault. All I kept thinking was that my parents would be so ashamed and so upset if I could not have my first communion. And what of my classmates? Would I have to sit in the church and watch while they made their communion and everyone would know that I was a terrible sinner, so dirty that I couldn't make my communion?
He said nothing more and neither did I. We stood up and walked to the house. Walking to the back door, he held it open for me and I squeezed gingerly past him, doing everything possible not to touch him. As I walked into the kitchen, my mother said, "There you two are! Go sit down with your boyfriend, now." My cheeks burned. He was NOT my boyfriend. Just looking at him made my stomach turn over with revulsion. I went into the bathroom and stuck my hands under the hottest water I could stand. It wasn't enough. The soap in the bathroom was Ivory. My hand didn't feel clean enough.
My father had a bar of Lava soap that he kept by the kitchen sink. I ran into the kitchen, grabbed the soap and began scrubbing my hands as hard as I could. It was an abrasive soap that made my hands feel raw and I needed that. Afterwards, I walked slowly to the dining room table and discovered that, as usual, my mother had made sure that I was seated right next to Brother H. My sister was on the other side and I squirmed into my chair, so close to her that I was practically on the rim of my seat. I didn't want to even breathe the same air as he did.
I don't know how I got through that dinner. I don't remember what we ate. Strange, the details memory allows you. I do remember that after dinner, it was my job to help with the drying of dishes and I was glad to be away from him. I said nothing to anyone. I kept thinking of that communion dress, that veil. What he had made me do. Except, instead of thinking of what he had made me do, I thought of it instead as what I had done. After cleaning up, I told my mother that I was sick and went upstairs to the room that I shared with my sister. I laid on the bed, completely still. I was terrified that he would find an excuse to come upstairs and make me do that to him again. I listened to every noise until, relieved, I heard him taking his leave. My mother called me from the bottom of the stairs and when I didn't answer, sent my sister up to get me. I screwed my eyes shut tightly, pretending to be asleep. I heard my sister enter the room and then leave to tell everyone that I was sleeping.
He left. I took a long shaky breath.
I never told anyone. I made my first communion. Brother H was there but I avoided him. There was a loud crowd at our house so it was easy. After that, he came less and less to dinner. I was careful never to go near him. I would greet him with a soft hello and then retreat as far as I could until he left. I don't know if my parents noticed my sudden aversion to him. If they did, they probably thought that I had outgrown him. He never made any overtures to seek me out again and little by little, he went from being a frequent guest at our home to an occasional one.
The last time I saw him was after my father died. I was holed up in my father's den, arms around a seat back pillow that smelled like him. I sat in his rocking chair, wrapped in a blanket. The den door opened and my mother came in with Brother H. I think she had the misguided notion that he might be able to comfort me. Instead, I screamed at the sight of him.
"Please leave me alone. Go away! PLEASE!!" He backed out immediately and my mother, even in her deep grief, looked at me in disappointment, shocked that I would speak that way to clergy. She didn't scold me, though, and left.
I have never felt more alone in my life. I had never told anyone and now the one person whom I saw as my protector, the person that I should have told, was gone. I felt that my father was with me at that moment and silently prayed for him to keep Brother H away from me forever. I never saw him again.
I didn't tell anyone about what happened until I was a teenager. I told a family member. I was not believed. I was told that I always did have a big imagination and that I must have had a nightmare or something and just imagined it. I learned a valuable lesson that day. Even those who are close to you might not believe you. Best not to tell.
Later, long after I met T, I finally told her. She believed me. She was horrified for me. I started crying and then stopped.
"Do you know that this is the FIRST time that I have ever cried over this?" I managed to say. She didn't answer. She just held me and told me that I was safe now. She said it over and over.
"You're safe now."
A few months later, I decided to look Brother H up. The internet was in its infancy, there wasn't the information available that there is today but I found him. He had died in a monastery in Italy several years before. I don't know what I would have done if he had been alive. Confronted him? I'm not sure. I'll never know now. I do know that it made me feel better just knowing that he was not alive anymore.
Now, I am putting this story out there. It has been brewing in my head for days, spiraling up because of the Kavanaugh fiasco. I know that I am not alone because the internet is now much more fluid and open and I see a lot of women are experiencing memories of their own that have come snaking up. We are a large group. I am not in a small minority. I am in a large group. There are so many of us. Most of us, either because of shame or fear, have remained silent for years and years.
But, I totally got it when Christine Blasey Ford could not remember the exact month or how she got home from a party. Memory, as I said, is very strange.
I remember the moss. I can't stand to even look at moss anymore. I remember the color of Brother H's pants. I can't remember what I was wearing. I remember Lava soap in a soap dish on the right corner of the kitchen sink. I remember those pearls on that veil.
I remember that I never played with that paper doll again. That I gave it all to my little cousin Theresa. All the clothes. The dog. The lasso held together with scotch tape. I could hardly stand to look at any of her outfits or her cardboard cutout smiling face with the golden curls.
I watched the smug men interrogate Dr. Ford. I watched Judge Kavanaugh weave and bob. I believed her. I still do. And I have seen women in my own family come prancing up with genuine anger that Dr. Ford could hurt this man so. As if going on national television was something Dr. Ford did because she wanted a little attention.
I know better. Because, as Lady Gaga so beautifully put it:
'Til it happens to you, you don't know
How it feels
How it feels
'Til it happens to you, you won't know
It won't be real
No, it won't be real
Won't know how it feels....
And do me a favor? If you must hold on to your ignorance, don't do it around those of us who have experienced this kind of thing. Because we are holding in a lot of pain and you are just another piece of idiocy that we have to deal with. Take it somewhere else.
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