It's summer time here in Arizona. No matter what they say about it being a dry heat - it's still scorching! It's 100+ before 9am. Sure, no humidy does make a difference, in my hair at least, but it's still too hot to do anything. Having a pool is mandatory and I am so grateful to have that luxury. I still sometimes cannot believe my kids get to grow up with a pool! What cluelessly spoiled punks! The first time I saw a pool was the summer I was taken away by Child Protective Services and stayed with my Aunt on Long Island. There was a cluster of family out there, all within miles of each other. Family by name, but strangers in reality. I knew we were related, and how, but I didn't know any of these people. They lived fairy tale lives. It was like a television show or something. Dinner on the table, as a family. Ice cream sundaes on Sunday night. Picnic lunches by the water. All of this was so foreign to me. There was absolutely no resemblance of a routine in my life as a child. Quite the opposite, actually. Chaos from the moment you woke up. Over the summer on Long Island I slept at one Aunt's house but would spend most of my time during those summer days bouncing around the neighboring Aunt's houses. We would walk to my Aunt Arlene's house a lot because she had a pool. The walk was long, but we always stopped half way, either for pizza or Nathan's hot dogs. I remember this so vividly. We were often walking with, or met there by my younger cousin. Both of us would hope and pray to stop at the pizza place because there was a boy who worked there that we were obsessed with. I remember getting butterflies in my belly and giggling with my cousin as we watched every move he made. We had a name for him, but I can't remember how he got it. We called him Rico Suave. Maybe that song was popular that summer? Maybe he looked like him? Maybe we were just silly little girls. Yeah, that's probably it.
One of the most prominent memories about that summer was with my younger cousin. Swimming with her (she probably had no idea this was my first experience in a pool), Flirting with pizza guys with her. Sleeping over at her house and sharing stories about "the buildings" where I lived. I thought I was hot shit. I was 12 and already had my first kiss. I told her that story of my first kiss at least 100 times that summer. I told it so much that I don't even remember the actual kiss anymore, but I will always remember telling her all about it. She would ask me what his name was, how it happened, where it happened, how did it feel. The scary thing is I was way too young to have had such an experience already. But, that was life in the buildings. I grew up too fast and have way too many memories, wildly inappropriate memories, of making out in those hallways. Hiding under stairs and behind cement pillars to experience things no pre-teen should.
Summer time in the buildings was like 2 months of mayhem. The courtyard would be humming with music and kids laughing and running around until all hours of the night. There is one summer night I will never forget...
Like most nights, my parents were locked in their bedroom with whoever the house guest of the week was, doing drugs, listening to music, talking about non sense. I can still hear the drug drawl that would spill through the door. At night I would always be the last one standing of my friends. I would beg them to stay out and play with me, but they of course couldn't. I would lurk around the courtyard, bored and not wanting to go home. The heat in the house was unbearable without air conditioning. The smell of dirt and bugs stung my nose as soon as I walked in the door. The emptiness and loneliness of not being missed and knowing nobody was looking for me made me to stay away as long as I could. This particular night was about 1987, I was 11, I think. It was before I was taken away, I think the year before. My Dad was still alive at this time. My mom, Dad and their friend "Uncle Charlie" were locked up in their bedroom in the apartment. The courtyard was empty. There are two archway/tunnels on each end of the oval courtyard. I was in the archway that was closest to the park and elementary school across the street, PS 60. I could hear a ruckus in the distance, the sound of a lot of people talking and laughing at the same time. It was a group of older, teenage kids that hung around the neighborhood. The 60 Park Gang. Everyone called them the '60 Park Gang' because that was where they congregated, usually in the darkness of the secluded park, after hours when the little kids were all in bed. All the little kids, except me. I don't know why I didn't skiddaddle out of there and run home before they got closer. I know I was scared, but I guess it was better than going home. I stayed put on the stoop of the "F" building, hoping they would walk right past the tunnel and not see me. No such luck. Instead, they turned into the tunnel. I started to get up and walk towards my building, but I could feel them behind me. One of them was making disgusting remarks about my body and butt. He kept getting more and more inappropriate and my heart kept beating faster and faster. I wanted to run, but thought that would be too dangerous. I got to my building and opened the steel door. I usually had to ring the bell to my apartment to be buzzed in, but in the summer there was always a piece of cardboard in the lock, holding it open. At this point I start to run, but one of them followed me in. He was too fast for me. I turned my head to see where they were and saw him right behind me. To the left was a short 4 steps going up and just a few feet was my apartment. But, he stopped me before I made it up those stairs. He pushed me against the wall and put his arm next to my face, with his hand against the wall. He was saying things that still make my heart race, to this day. I wanted to throw up from fear. He took his other hand and tried to reach up my shirt. I could not let him do this, not here, just a few feet away from my house. I lifted my knee and probably only grazed him in the crotch, but he was so surprised by it that I was able to run up the stairs and into my apartment. There was no lock on the door and he was just right in the hallway. I didn't know what to do. The first door in the long hallway inside my apartment was my parents bedroom. I pounded on the door so hard and fast, it almost matched the beat of my heart. I called for my Mommy to help me. She was out of the room in the blink of an eye. One thing about my Mom. She was FIERCE. She would come out of a coma to my rescue. This wasn't the first time she was jolted sober by the sound of my fear and pain. If there was one thing I knew, it was no matter how high she was, she would always protect me. Sure, sometimes it came a little too late, but, better late than never. I told my Mom what happened and I could see her face twist with anger. She started out the door, my Dad and Charlie trying to stop her. There was no stopping her. Someone has messed with the wrong kid. My Dad and Charlie ran to the kitchen window that looked out into the courtyard. You could see through the archway and tunnel into the street and into the park from this window. It wasn't long before I heard complete mayhem happening outside. Screaming, bottles breaking, cursing. After a few minutes, I snuck next to the men and peaked out the window. What I saw there will never be erased from my brain. The street lights had illuminated the street between the buildings and the park. There was a gang of teenagers beating my mother on the ground. It was horrifying. One of them had a mini motorcycle, scooter, moped thing and ran it over her face. They were running her over, And over. And over. I don't remember what happened next. I don't remember if I said anything to my Father and his friend, but I know in the 30 years since I have wanted to say plenty of things to them. How could they let this happen and just WATCH from the window!?!? Maybe I cried, but probably I went into shock because I cannot remember anything else from that night. I only remember the next day, or maybe the day after that even. I remember the door to my parents room being closed. There was nothing new about that, but there was something new about the silence that lurked behind it. I remember my Father telling me to go in to see my Mom. I remember being petrified. I remember the guilt that weighed heavily on my shoulders. I was taken in to see her and it was even worse than I imagined. Her face was unrecognizable. It was twice the size and it was a deep shade of purple. One, or was it both, eye was completely shut and looked like there was a grapefruit shoved under her eyelid. I wanted to run, screaming from the room. Instead, I closed my eyes and let tears run down my dirty face. I could hear her talking to me in gurgled sounds. She told me not to worry, that she was fine and would be fine. She told me how much she loved me. She told me it wasn't my fault. That was a joke. If not my fault, then whose?
That's the funny thing about growing up in such a dysfunctional environment. I was a child, just a baby, and by the time I was 13 I had the weight of the world in guilt hanging on my heart. Not only this incident. Not only the guilt I felt about my Father's death, or being taken away by CPS. It felt like the guilt never ended. Of course, I know now how far from reality that is. I was not ever responsible for ANY of these things. I was merely a product of my environment. I'm no psychologist, so I don't know why I bore the brunt for so many years. Maybe I learned too young that the grown ups held no responsibility. Who knows. It's like that saying "If I only knew then, what I know now" I would save myself a lot of innocent years wasted in the wasteland of guilt. Then again, would I be who I am today without it? If I didn't hold that guilt in my heart, would I instead be cold hearted? Maybe end up going down another road? I think guilt is what saved me. If I had gotten angry at such a young age, where would that get me? I can only imagine a life of misery and pain. A different kind of pain, pain that hardens your heart. I am glad my heart was never hardened. In a way, the guilt is what carried me through these experiences. If I truly blamed the ones who deserved it, it would have resulted in a me I don't think I like. I am happy to say that I have gotten through and past that guilt now. I ended up in a place of forgiveness and love, and that is exactly where I was meant to be.
