MEMOIR WRITING
Breaking the Chains
INHERITED SIN
Growing up, mom and dad suffered from parental absenteeism and alcoholism. For Dad, it was the alcoholic violence of his overwhelmed Mother, and Grandpa’s constant long shifts at the hospital taking their toll. Grandpa proudly wore his saintly privilege and was worshiped in the community, but he was never around, and the only way to spend time with him was to go to church. The benevolent doctor was praised at church and constantly dedicated his free time to daily prayer and worship. For the times, he was a stud.
Still, at home, in my Dad’s eyes, he was never there.
His Mother, Loretta, had an exacting punishment system based on her abusive upbringing. She relied heavily on shame and degradation to modify children’s behavior. For Dad, it was being called a sissy when he was too scared of jumping into the cold lake or sliding down the steep slide. He was a careful child who preferred hiding behind the couch and paging through picture books. He was afraid of her outbursts and he wept watching his sisters suffer through grandma’s punishments. And, truly, the girls suffered the worst.
Their harsh punishment for innocently wetting the beds resulted in being placed on humiliating display in the front yard, with stained underwear crowned atop their heads. Yellow-stained bed sheets billowed out of bedroom windows, waving to all passers-by in hopes of causing scorn and certain embarrassment. — and yes, throughout this, they had a live-in maid.
My Father would watch, soul-filled with powerlessness. He hated his drunk Mother for her strict cruel, sadistic behavior. Witnessing his sister’s abuse inspired a hero complex in my Father that was just as overwhelming. His only escape was marriage and he knew that picking the opposite of his mother was the wisest possible choice.
For us, his children, his pain was evident as he repeatedly relived the horrifying memories at our mandatory Saturday dinner. He always finished these stories, reminding us that our lives are much better than his because we could all be together daily and not suffer regular physical abuse.
The work ethic and stoic doggedness that regimented his life were his “gift” to us, compensation for everything he lacked in his childhood — an oddly socially progressive choice from a fiscally conservative man hitting adulthood in the 1960s.
Yet, in his mind, he chose the left-handed path. He wrote his script with a permanent Sharpie Marker and never looked back, setting fire to the bridge on the way out of Metaphor Town, flipping the finger in his rear view mirror from his new used-cargo van.
