Chapter 3 
Chapter 3 A bruised reed He will not break,
And smoking flax He will not quench;
He will bring forth justice for truth.
—ISAIAH 42:3
LISA: I was born and raised in West Monroe, Louisiana, where Al and I, and our children and grandchildren, still live. I am the youngest of three children and came into the world as a surprise to my parents, who thought they were finished having children. My parents were married for forty-eight years before my dad passed away in 2004. I was especially close to my dad, and one of my favorite memories is sitting in front of our big television watching the original Hawaii Five-O series with him every week. My dad was an amazing man. Everyone who knew him loved him. He never met a stranger, always wore a big smile, and loved to joke and laugh. His eyes were sky blue and as big as half dollars. My granddaughter Bailey has those eyes, and I am grateful God gave them to her; I can look into them and see my daddy.
My father was the best dad a little girl could ask for. He was my biggest fan, he could correct me with a smile, and he loved me unconditionally. His nickname was “Hoot,” and the nickname he gave me was “Kid.” When I was young, it was “Little Kid,” but as I got older, it became just “Kid.” I knew he meant his kid, and that gave me a strong sense of belonging.
My mother was married briefly before she married my dad. That marriage produced my brother, Harvey Ray Gibson (we called him “Ray”), and my dad adopted him as a toddler. My brother was twelve years older than I, and he left home when I was five years old to join the military and get married. I would definitely say my brother was a good big brother, but I barely knew him until he got out of the military and moved back to West Monroe with his small family.
I was very proud of my brother and of his being a Marine. I was seven years old when his first son was born, and I loved spending time with him; my sister-in-law, Diana; and their four children, Alif, Jimmy, Carla, and Harvey.
After my brother died, I stayed in touch with his children and their families, who all still live in West Monroe. I was so happy to be able to host our Christmas Eve get-together in 2013 at the new home Al and I had moved into earlier that year. I think that was the first time in about twelve years that we were all in the same house. They are my family, and I love them all very much.
My only sister, Barbara, was seven years older than I, and she was my idol. When I was young, I worshipped her and thought she was the coolest, most beautiful, most captivating person I had ever known. Plus, Barbara always had a boyfriend, and for reasons I will explain later, I thought that was great. At an early age I ended up being boy crazy too. My affection and admiration for Barbara never wavered, even though I knew better than anyone—because I slept in her bed each night—that she had a terrible problem with alcohol. I can remember lying in bed when Barbara came home drunk after being out with her boyfriend or a group of teenagers up to no good, hearing her and my mother yell and scream horrible things at each other. And I remember promising myself at that young age that I would not go down the same path. Though I could not have explained that commitment in a mature way as a little girl, I intentionally made a strong determination not to get involved with alcohol, not to have a string of men parading through my life, and not to end up fighting with people who loved me.
Now both my sister and brother are deceased, but I am thankful that my mother lives in West Monroe, along with all the Robertsons. I am surrounded by family, and I love it. I have not always loved my life, though, and I do not blame anyone for that. Some things happened that no one knew about, so no one did anything about them, and these experiences impacted me in negative ways for years. I have a sordid past, and I have no problem stating that fact. What’s more important, though, is that I have a redeemed past—and that’s something I share openly because I have learned that doing so helps and ministers to people who have been through similar traumatic circumstances. I’ll write more about that later.
Some things happened that no one knew about, so no one did anything about them, and these experiences impacted me in negative ways for years.
In spite of the challenges I faced growing up, I had a fairly “typical” childhood in many ways. We lived in the country and attended church together as a family. I was a Brownie and a Girl Scout, I played basketball, and I was a cheerleader. I wanted to be a part of everything and was active and involved in the things that interested me. I really enjoyed being around people my age and made friends easily. Everyone seemed to like me, and I liked them. But I also had a secret I could not share with them.
As Al mentioned earlier, we did not have access to day care facilities when he and I were young the way people have access to them today. Most of the time, friends, neighbors, or family members took care of children who needed adult supervision. Just as Phil and Kay sent Al to school at age four so someone could look after him while they worked, my mother sent me to my grandmother’s house while she and my dad were at work—five mornings a week during the school year and all day each weekday during summers and holidays. I have a lot of difficult memories of being at my grandmother’s house, and a couple of good ones. The good ones are that she let me drink sweet tea for breakfast and she taught me how to garden and fish. The bad ones—well, they used to be my secret. Now they’re part of my story.
My grandmother’s name was Allie. I still love that name. I should have named one of my daughters Allie, but when they came along I already had a cousin named after our grandmother. My grandmother was a lot like Miss Kay in that she cooked three meals a day and served everyone who came into her home. She always cooked extra because someone always came by and was hungry.
My grandmother had long white hair that I think she washed a couple of times a week—the only times we ever saw it down. Otherwise, she wore it in a bun on her head. She was also “a full-figured lady,” as we choose to call it, and my mom says I have her build on the backside! Yes, a little too much junk in the trunk.
My grandmother lived about five minutes from my mom’s workplace in Bawcomville, Louisiana. About a block from her house, on a corner, was a store, and I loved to walk to the store for my grandmother to purchase her snuff. It was very powdery, not like the Copenhagen the Robertson men dip, and it came in a silver can.
My grandmother had an old coffee can that she spit in, and I remember one day when her friend Ms. Lizzie wanted to spit in it, but I wouldn’t let her. My grandmother said, “Liser” (that’s what she called me), “let my friend spit in that can.”
I said, “She can get her own can. This one is yours. It’s gross for her to spit in your can.” She was so angry with me for saying that. Ms. Lizzie did eventually get to spit in that can, but not because I shared it with her!
I have great memories of my grandmother as a person. I just do not have good memories of the times I was taken advantage of in her home.
My mother was one of eleven children (one who died as a child in a fire), and three of her brothers still lived at home off and on for most of the time I stayed with my grandmother. They were emotionally unpredictable and volatile; I never knew when shouting would erupt or when one of them would start throwing punches or waving a knife—or whether the police would show up. It was a frightening environment for a child.
The worst part of being at my grandmother’s house was that one of my male relatives, who sometimes came to her house and who had severe drug and alcohol problems, molested me. My earliest memory of this abuse is when I was about seven years old. He did things that made me feel dirty, bad, and used, though the violations never involved intercourse. I don’t remember exactly how he threatened me to keep me from telling anyone, but whatever he did worked. All I can think of is that he probably said my dad would be upset if he knew about it. I adored my dad, so I never told him. I just carried my shame and my secret. One morning I called my mother at work and begged her to come get me and take me home. I do not remember why that particular day was so bad or what gave me the courage (or desperation) to call her. I only remember that she did not come.
I never did bond well with my mother as I got older. Maybe because the darkness in me didn’t feel deserving of a mother’s bond. Or maybe it had to do with the harsh way my mother treated Barbara. I loved my sister, and seeing my mother so stern with her may have driven a wedge into my relationship with my mom. The older I got—especially as I moved into my teenage years and the darkness in me became more powerful—the more I clashed with her.
The older I got—especially as I moved into my teenage years and the darkness in me became more powerful—the more I clashed with her.
Barbara and my dad were the two people with whom I had close relationships, and Barbara moved out of our house as soon as she graduated high school. She moved in with a relative we knew would provide a safe environment for her because she could no longer stand the yelling and fighting that went on between my mother and her. They pushed all the wrong buttons in each other, which escalated the anger in both of them and drove them farther and farther apart until Barbara could not stand it anymore.
Barbara’s leaving was extremely hard on me. Not only was I alone without her to talk to, I also felt my hero and role model had left me behind. Because of my strained relationship with my mother and with Barbara gone, I had no one to talk to about what was happening to me, so I kept it to myself.
On the rare occasions I did see Barbara, I could never bring myself to tell her what was happening to me because I somehow thought it was my fault (that was another lie) and I did not want her to be angry with me or think I was responsible for it. She did not know about it until several months before she died. That’s when I found out she had been abused too—by a preacher, she said. She told our mother about it, but Mom did not believe her.
Because I have now learned that I was not the only girl whom this man molested, I have wondered whether Barbara was abused by the same relative and she chose not to name him for some reason. On this earth, I will never know the truth about what happened to her. We did not have a chance to talk about it in detail, which is one of my biggest regrets. She needed to know it was not her fault and that she was not a bad person because of what happened to her too. I just waited too late to reveal my secret and learn about hers.
The abuse continued until I was about fourteen years old. My grandfather died that year, and when all of our family was at my grandparents’ house for his funeral, this horrible man found me alone. I still cannot believe he even considered molesting me during the funeral activities!
That day, I had had enough. I finally stood up for myself and said, “If you ever touch me again, I will tell my dad. And he will kill you.” To this day, I am absolutely positive I was right about that.
My abuser never sought me out after that. My father died without ever knowing what had happened to me. I did not mention it to my mother after I called her to come get me that day because I didn’t think she would believe me. Once I had grandchildren, I did tell her about the relative who molested because there were times she kept them and he came around her house, so I wanted to make sure they were protected.
So that’s a big part of the story of my early years. A somewhat typical beginning gone bad because of a selfish, lustful man—and no one to talk to about it. A beautiful hero of a sister who silently suffered the same things I did and dealt with them in negative ways that no one understood. Two girls, seven years apart in age, both excessively boy crazy for deep, dark, shameful reasons. And, as I will write about in the next chapter, a good-looking boy who caught my attention in the sixth grade and changed my life.