Memoirist Idol

Well-Groomed

Triggered into remembering

Who watches the groomsmen?

Open your watch and be ready to press “Stop” when this sounds familiar, about our culture of familiar men.

I have a friend who recently self-published a collection of essays, Each Fallen Robin. In one of these, he begins:

“In March of 2012, I was sexually assaulted by my film studies professor in his home” (102).

I know the professor, and as I read this Creative Nonfiction essay, the details rang true. Especially this one:

“He sat down next to me. He was sitting so close, our thighs were touching…Professor Steve [real name redacted] put his left arm over my shoulders. He told me it was more comfortable that way. If you are reading this and you have never experienced this kind of grooming, you’re likely wondering why I allowed the rest of this story to happen” (107–8).

I did not wonder.

***

Of the many men who formed our neighborhood watchmen, two stand out in this memory. I’ll call them “Houseshoes” and “Rooster,” because that’s how my family referred to them. In Bessemer, Alabama, you could expect to encounter many “Roosters,” each of them reinforcing those southern redneck stereotypes we’re so famous for perpetuating. Our Rooster lived on the hill above us, had a wife he met as a pen pal when he served in Korea, and one son. Rooster wore white socks up to his knees, which looked especially striking with his beige Keds and his shorts and golf shirt, each a different shade of red.

In many ways, he was a friendly guy, dropping in unannounced whenever he was off work. He toiled at a foundry, working those strange shifts from 7–3, 3–11, or 11–7. Sometimes, he’d stop by on his way home at eight in the morning. During my pre-teen years, I’d wonder why.

In this era, no one locked their front doors, so we’d often hear our screen door slam, and there would be Rooster, strolling through our dining room and into our den, no matter how we might be dressed, what we might be doing. At some point, our mother instructed us,

“Go lock that screen door. I don’t want Rooster walking in.”

My mother had known Rooster in high school.

“He could be real funny,” she said. “One day, our teacher who was notorious for spitting when she talked, stood right in front of Rooster, so he got up and went to the coat room, put on his rain coat, and sat back down.”

Rooster also enjoyed Par 3 golf, as we all did back then, and since he worked crazy shifts, he could often hit a round during weekday afternoons. In the summer, he also offered to take my brother or me, but never both of us together. And we’d go sometimes, where nothing so out of the ordinary happened except we’d see for ourselves how Rooster managed to shoot several strokes under par. Any putt within six feet was a “gimme.”

He never touched us, or at least my brother never said he did, and I know he didn’t with me.

Once, when we had a family outing to Holiday Beach, however, I saw Rooster undressing, and his underwear had no back. I would later learn that this was a jock strap, something my own father never wore.

Just a few years ago, my brother told this story:

“Once, when I came home from high school, Rooster was there. Mom was sitting at the breakfast table, and Rooster was standing behind her, rubbing her neck and shoulders. But when he saw me coming, he jumped back and stopped.”

***

Houseshoes was our pediatrician, and my brother named him because in his office, he actually wore slippers. He had a very dry, sarcastic air, and he lived just a few blocks from us, in an old Victorian home with his mother. I am trying to avoid stereotyping here, but details are details. Houseshoes would very often roll his eyes and proclaim,

“Ye Gods and Little Fishes”

at any physical complaint we might have.

Whenever I had to visit for an ailment or a physical, along with peering down my throat, listening to my chest, and checking out my ears, he would eventually have me lie on the table, and would start feeling around my torso. Sometimes my mother would be in the examining room, sometimes not. Always the last thing, he would try to pull my pants down a bit more to feel my pelvic area. I never knew what he was feeling for, and early on, I refused. He would step back, and roll his eyes as if I was a strange child.

By the time I turned 14, I let him feel down there, because I thought I must have been acting like a scared kid. This happened near the time, or just before, he asked me to work for him one summer, tending to his garden. I was supposed to mow his lawn, too, but he claimed I didn’t cut it short enough, and when I told him that my father said that cutting the grass too short would cause it to burn, Houseshoes said,

“What your father knows about lawns can be inscribed on my little toenail.”

One day, he returned from his office while I was weeding.

“Come into the house with me and I’ll explain what you’re to do next.”

He had me follow him upstairs and wait in an antechamber while he changed clothes. He did not close the door to his bedroom. He took off his clothes, down to his gold briefs, and stood there for a few minutes before donning his gold coveralls.

I didn’t know what had happened, what “grooming” was, then.

But I quit work the next day, opting to box jewelry in my father’s store.

I know I’m not wrong.

I know what was intended, and like my friend, I know what these moments in time did to me.

Thank you for reading, and if you’re interested in more Memoirist Idol, try this story from Scot Butwell about why he writes — and keeps coming back to writing and teaching — and what he might fear and love in the process. I hope he finishes his memoir in all good and deliberative speed!

I hope your stories help lift some burdens from your weary minds and hearts: Pierce McIntyre, Jessica Lee McMillan, Jeffrey Harvey, David Acaster, Jill Ebstein, and Alex Markham.