I FOUND
IT: The post about trashing the
bathroom at St. Perpetua Church in San Marino CA. First posted January 2007 at Cityof Angels One titled: “Teenage years add-on” but last few weeks I keep editing it and editing it*, At some point you have to just let go and publish. In an upcoming fiction piece is a female character with same backstory as me named Cass.
*************
It must have been 1961 as I was thirteen years old.
It must have been 1961 as I was thirteen years old.
Now my dad had a job in downtown L.A. No more ditching church.
My mom dropped me off and watched until I got in the door. But as soon as she pulled away, I was out the side door and around the back of the church where I knew there was a girls rest room in the elementary school playground area.
I avoided Mass that morning when the family car pulled away but my dad's glare was rigid: “You'll go at five o'clock then.”
Sure, a lot of kids don't want to go to church on Sundays, but the revulsion I felt was so much deeper than my friends’ dislike of church. At age thirteen, I’d long ago stuffed away memories of Father Horne and his invasive fingers in me at age five. I just knew there was something I did not like about the Catholic Church and I didn't want to participate anymore.
It
started as I looked at myself, a tube of lipstick in my hand. Maybe my first intent was just to put some lipstick
on, maybe I was still planning to go back into the church. But soon instead of on my lips, the red waxy
tube of color became my paint. On the
mirror I wrote the words “Hypocrites, Catholics are Hypocrites.” I got so much satisfaction from the red
markings smashing into the mirror surface, that I continued writing
"Hypocrites, Catholics Are All Hypocrites"
all over the rest of the mirror and then on the wall next to the mirror, until the lipstick was ground flat.
"Hypocrites, Catholics Are All Hypocrites"
all over the rest of the mirror and then on the wall next to the mirror, until the lipstick was ground flat.
Now the
rage had emerged and I needed something else.
I was making gurgling noises that occasionally grew to a growling
scream. The people inside Mass must have
been able to hear me but I was no longer aware of where I was. My rage was unbounded and I wanted to destroy
more, get louder, get more outrageous.
On the
wall was a towel dispenser from the 1960s where you pulled and more clean towel
would unroll and the used towel rolls back into the dispenser. I pulled and pulled and pulled until I had
extended the white cloth all over the bathroom, then twisted the cloth, dipped
it in the water running in the sink, dragged the white cloth on the floor,
stomping as much dirt from my shoes onto it as I could. I tried to pull the cloth into a toilet stall
but it would not reach that far, a fact that made me more enraged.
My screeching noises became
more shrill, I pulled and pulled at the towel and became tangled up with it
where I’d fallen on the floor, my gyrating so out of control I couldn't stop twisting myself up. I couldn't pull the
towel any farther so the rage was building up and I was looking around for
something else, some other thing I could jerk myself over to and destroy.
Then the
light in the room changed.
Because a
nun, in full black habit and veil stood in the doorway. The restroom faced west so the setting
sun formed a silhouette, the nun was a black form in the doorway, with the smog
of an L.A. summer afternoon bright gray behind her.
I
stopped. A rush of completeness and
serenity washed over me and I stopped pulling on the towel dispenser, untangles
myself. I couldn't see the nun’s face,
just her eerie presence.
I don't
really remember what happened after that.
Except it
was soon after that incident that my dad told me and my older sister Patricia,
you know what, I will give you a choice.
He said, you are old enough and mature enough to decide for yourselves
if you want to go to Mass on Sunday, if you don't want to go, you don't have to
go.
My dad,
the wonderful progressive futuristic thinking guy that I always thought that he
was.
I didn't
realize until 1994 my dad knew what Father Horne had done to me and my
sister when we were preschool aged, apparently. So ten years later when I trashed the girls bathroom at the church, he was beginning to see the effects those criminal fingers had on his two daughters.
**************
I did act
out from the time I was about age six in ways that showed I’d been molested,
it's just up to the early 1960s, people didn't know what it meant when a little
girl is always climbing up on the men in the room and bouncing on their
laps.
I had
textbook behavior of a molested child. I
took an overdose of vitamins when I was around nine, the overeating that
started at age seven or so was astonishing, and I was obese all the way up to
becoming preteen and going into puberty when I realized I’d need to be thin to
be attractive and get the sex I now wanted.
So then I had anorexia starting in 1962 before anyone even knew what
anorexia was,
I took my
cousins into a room and sexualized them under the covers when I was maybe
seven, while our parents were drinking and celebrating in the other room.
There was
the incident in the tree house in Bartlett with the neighborhood kids
Little
incidents: I wore green eye shadow as lipstick at one family event, No one asked why, but at my dad’s funeral 80
years later, my aunt was still remarking about me wearing green eye shadow as
lipstick.
In
today’s world with those signals, child abuse professionals would have
converged on my parents to find out who was molesting me by the time I was
about six.
But no,
my karma was to have the experience of being sexualized at age six by a
Catholic priest and then be thrown aroused out into the world with all its
repercussions.
Originally
published in shorter form here in January 2007
then
edited and developed as part of the story at City of Angels 15 in October
2012, finally published in November..
And
http://cityofangels12.blogspot.com
And now I'm finished writing my own story and ready to take this to a different level.
Stay tuned.
And now I'm finished writing my own story and ready to take this to a different level.
Stay tuned.
Posted by Kay Ebeling
cooling down in Illinois
.
* I might not even have the right church. It might have been a different church... oh well. It was somewhere in San Gabriel Valley 1961.
.
* I might not even have the right church. It might have been a different church... oh well. It was somewhere in San Gabriel Valley 1961.
.
1 comment:
To Comment email me, Kay, at cityofangelslady@yahoo.com and I will publish it. I need to get comments in email to prevent hostile attacks and spammers.
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