Please don’t think my childhood was one long parade of misery – it really wasn’t. Like I said, I didn’t know what a normal childhood was, so my life seemed pretty normal to me. And I have a ton of really happy memories. Even on my worst days, I found something to laugh about. That’s a trait I inherited from my mom, and it’s something I believe helped all of us survive. No matter how dire things got, we found the humor in them and laughed instead of cried.
Like the night my mom decided to make homemade Christmas ornaments. I was four or five, and she let me help roll the dough and cut it into the shape of candy canes, reindeer and snowmen. When we finished she put them in the oven and I went to bed. A couple of hours later, my mom rushed into my bedroom and woke me up.
‘Come on,’ she said, ‘we have to go.’
It turns out she had spray-painted the ornaments in the kitchen instead of the backyard and, in the process, filled the house with noxious fumes. Even throwing all the windows open didn’t help. So she and Hank roused me from bed, and the three of us sat on the front porch in the middle of a cold winter night until the fumes were gone.
That little bit of bad luck turned into one of my favorite childhood memories. After she led me to the porch my mom dashed back in the house and returned carrying all my favorite board games. ‘Let’s have a game party!’ she suggested. I remember the three of us sitting on the porch steps – me in my pajamas and winter coat – and playing the game I loved most: Hook, Line and Sinker, in which you tried to hook these tiny fish with little magnetic fishing poles. I sat between Mom and Hank, and it felt like all the attention was on me. We played and laughed and joked well past my bedtime, and we forgot all about the fumes.
We make the best of bad situations – that’s what we’re good at.
When my mom finally divorced Hank after he fired his gun at me, we became a team of three – battered but still beautiful – Connie, her sassy, smart-mouthed daughter and her mischievous little boy. The years when my mom was a single mother were lean and tough – we weren’t dirt poor, but we were pretty darn poor. And yet, looking back on those years today makes me smile. Why? Because we found a way to make being poor seem like a big adventure.
My mother had gone to school to become a dental hygienist, and after the divorce she worked long hours for two dentists in town. She stretched her paychecks as far as they would go, but they never stretched very far. I remember she always served us what she called ‘poor man’s spaghetti’ for dinner – just spaghetti and sauce, no meatballs. It didn’t dawn on me until I was much older that we were the poor men.
Mom tried to make all occasions feel special. The first day of school was always a big deal. Somehow, she bought us new clothes and shoes before each new fall semester, and she always let us pick out our own pencil cases and lunch boxes. If one of us got an award at school, no matter how small or silly it was, Mom was always there to see us collect it and cheer us on. If we played a shrub or a snowflake in a school play, my mom was there, front and center. When I was a Brownie from the first to fifth grade, my mom helped me sell tons of cookies. I remember our living room was literally jammed with stacked boxes of Girl Scout cookies which we had to sort and deliver all over town. At the end of it I might have only gotten a tiny stuffed animal as a prize, but the true reward was all the time I spent with my mom in that cookie-crowded room.
I can recall so many small acts of kindness on her part. My mom packed our lunches for school every day, and every day she’d write me a little note on my napkin, saying she hoped I was having a great day or how she couldn’t wait to see me again. Another big treat was going to the drive-in movies. Mom would make tons of popcorn and fill up a big brown grocery bag to bring with us. She’d spread out a blanket beside the car and let us kids lie on it by ourselves while she sat in a lawn chair behind us. I swear I can still taste that salty popcorn, still see my brother’s face lit up by the screen.
Even when I didn’t deserve it, my mom was sweet to me. One summer she bought a small above-ground pool for the backyard, and she asked Jayson and me to help her set it up. Jayson, of course, got right to it. But it was a particularly hot day and I didn’t feel much like helping, so I didn’t. My mom said, ‘If you don’t help, you don’t swim.’ ‘Fine,’ I told her, ‘I won’t swim,’ and I sulked away.
Later I looked out the kitchen window and saw my mom and brother frolicking in the pool. They looked like they were having a blast. Clever kid that I was, I put on my bathing suit and stood near the pool, waiting until my mom felt sorry enough for me to let me in. I knew from experience she didn’t always stick to her punishments. Sure enough, after a while, she let me into the pool. I’d been pretty bratty, but she still wanted me to have a fun day. I’ve never forgotten that one little loving gesture.
Memories come in different forms, some sunny and bright as a summer day, others much darker. And try as my mother did to help me hold onto my childhood as long as possible, the truth is it was already slipping away.
I remember the first time I told God that I hated Him.
I was seven years old and in the second grade. There weren’t a lot of places in the world where I felt safe, but there was one place where I always did – alongside my Grandma Ernie.
Grandma Ernie was the only person in my life who always took my side. She was my champion and my biggest fan. I remember staying with her when I was young and wanting to watch a TV show in her living room. I asked her husband, a nice, but gruff old guy named Jim (who I called Paw Paw) if I could watch. He said no; he was watching something else. Well, Grandma Ernie came in and chased Paw Paw into their bedroom where he had to watch his show on a tiny TV. And I got to watch my show on the big set.
But having the big TV all to myself suddenly didn’t seem like fun. So I went into the bedroom and watched TV with Paw Paw.
Yes, Paw Paw was grumpy, but he also made me laugh – and not always because he was trying to. I remember my grandparents taking me to the zoo and Paw Paw lecturing me about something in the parking lot. Just as he said, ‘Do you understand me, young lady?’ a bird pooped right on top of his bald head. I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants. I also liked how Paw Paw was always falling asleep when he was supposed to be watching me. One summer Grandma Ernie got me my own kiddie pool, and Paw Paw’s only job was to watch over me while I played in the pool on the back porch. Well, it wasn’t long before Paw Paw was out cold, so I tiptoed into the house and got my grandma’s bottle of bubble bath.
Soon, my kiddie pool was overflowing with bubbles. When Grandma Ernie came home and looked for me out the kitchen window, all she could see was a mountain of bubbles with my little head bobbing in the middle. My bubble bath caper also led to the only argument I can ever remember my grandparents having. He wanted to dump the soapy pool water on the flowers so it wouldn’t kill his grass, and Grandma wanted to dump it on the grass so it wouldn’t kill her flowers. I don’t remember who won, but I do remember Paw Paw dragging my deflated my kiddie pool down the hallway and throwing it in the garbage.
In so many ways, Grandma Ernie made me feel protected and loved. It’s funny looking back on all the little things I remember about her, like this pistachio pudding she always made for me, or how weird I thought she was for putting ice cubes in my milk. But to this day, the rich, nutty smell of pistachio pudding makes me feel comforted. Grandma Ernie also let me sleep between her and Paw Paw in their bed, which was actually two twin beds pushed together with a big sheet stretched across. I’d always end up slipping between the beds, and that was one of my favorite places to be – sunk down in the gap in my grandmother’s bed, safe from the world.
But then I learned Grandma Ernie was sick.
I didn’t understand much of what people were saying about her, other than that her heart was failing. She was only in her sixties, but she was a heavy smoker. I remember her getting thinner and frailer as the years went on. Then she wound up in the hospital. My mom drove us to San Antonio to visit her, but when we got there it was too late to see her and we called her instead. I got on the phone and started telling Grandma about how exciting my day had been, but she said she was too tired to talk. I was surprised she didn’t want to talk – Grandma Ernie was the one person who never stopped me from talking. She always said, ‘People who talk a lot usually have a lot of interesting things to say.’ My feelings were hurt, but I told her I’d see her first thing in the morning.
‘Good night, Angel,’ she said, ‘I love you.’
A few hours later, something woke me up in the middle of the night. I don’t know what it was, except that it felt like someone shaking me. Only no one was there. I looked for my mom in her bed, but the bed was empty.
Instantly, I knew Grandma Ernie had died.
I went into the kitchen and saw my mom pacing the floor. Just then, the telephone rang, the loud rattle so much more jarring in the dead of night. I watched my mom pick up the phone, listen for a while, then crumple to her knees, shrieking and crying. ‘No, Daddy, no!’ I heard her scream. I ran to her, and she grabbed me and drew me close. We sat there on the kitchen floor holding each other and crying. I was clinging to my mother as she was losing hers.
To this day, I’m not sure how I knew Grandma Ernie had died before the phone call came. I like to think that maybe it was her, gently shaking me awake to tell me goodbye.
Not much later, I told God that I hated Him.
I know anger is only one of the five stages of grief, but boy, was I stuck on that stage for a long time. I was devastated by my grandmother’s death and furious that a person who loved me unconditionally had been taken away. I remember telling God I wished He’d taken Paw Paw instead. I know that sounds terrible and I really did love my grumpy grandpa, but back then, when I was seven, I couldn’t process the loss of someone I cherished so much. It seemed like a horribly random act of cruelty directed squarely at me. Why did God have to take Grandma Ernie, of all people? Why would He do such a thing to me?
‘I hate you,’ I told God that day. ‘I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!’
Only many years later would I realize that – even in the darkest moments of my life, even when my belief in God was at its absolute lowest point – I never stopped speaking to Him. Our conversations may have been filled with nothing but questions and curses and doubts and demands – but they were still conversations. I vowed many times to cut God out of my life, and sometimes I did, but never for long.
For whatever reason, even when I didn’t believe He was listening, I kept the channels open, and I had my talks with God.
Losing my Grandma Ernie made me grow up even faster. I’d always been a little precocious, talking to adults as if they were my equals, but when my grandma died I had the real sense that my childhood was ending.
Unfortunately, my situation at home only got tougher and tougher. Part of the problem was that I was so headstrong, which you’ve probably already figured out. Heck, I was stubborn even before I was born, refusing to come out for twenty-four hours until doctors had to come in and get me. As a young child I resisted my mother’s every effort to turn me into a pretty little girl – instead I was a defiant tomboy, never letting her touch my hair or put me in frilly dresses except on Easter. All the other girls showed up for first grade in cute, colorful outfits; I wore a flannel shirt and jeans. And in the first grade alone, I got paddled by the teacher three times: once for wetting my hair in the sink on a hot day and the other two times – big surprise – for talking too much.
But even though I was difficult, I really don’t think I was all that much of a bad girl. I did really well in school, usually As and Bs. Of course, it didn’t hurt that my dad – who was otherwise not involved with my schooling – agreed to pay me two dollars for every A I got. I remember how proud I was when I got to call my dad and tell him how much he owed me. He joked and told me I was going to make him go broke. But I knew he was proud of me, and I really loved that feeling.
So while I could be a little bossy and bratty – and often disobedient – I wasn’t what anyone would call a problem child. I wasn’t a bad girl.
But then, once Hank came into the picture, and in the years after he left, that slowly began to change.
Looking back, I think I had some pretty good reasons to be angry at the world. My father, who I adored, wasn’t around much, and there were long stretches when I didn’t hear from him at all. I remember my fifth grade teacher asking me about my parents. I started crying and told her I hadn’t spoken with my dad in five months. She seemed surprised, but by then I already knew that not having a full-time dad was just going to be a fact of life for me.
Then there were the years my mother calls her ‘wild phase’. After she divorced Hank she was still young and pretty, and she began dating quite a bit. I don’t remember a lot about the men she dated, except that I grew attached to some of them only to have them vanish from my life after a short while.
During those years, when my mom didn’t have a consistent partner in her life, she wound up confiding a lot of things in me. I knew exactly how poor we were, exactly which bills weren’t getting paid, exactly how bleak our future looked. She also badmouthed my dad from time to time, telling me things I had no way of confirming. It was way too much information to be sharing with a child.
And in that way, I became a co-parent. Around the time Hank left, my mom pretty much made me Jayson’s permanent babysitter, so I spent many nights taking care of my brother while my mom was out sowing her oats. I’d bath Jayson and clean the house and sometimes get dinner ready. I became my mother’s partner, not her daughter.
And yet I didn’t begrudge my mother for doing this to me, because I believed it was my responsibility to make her life better. I knew she worked hard all day at the dentists’ office, and I knew money was tight. And I knew she was lonely. So I tried my best to lighten her load, to make her happy however I could. I didn’t want my mother to feel lonely and afraid.
But then, abruptly, when I was ten years old, my mother stopped dating. All of a sudden, she decided she wanted to be a better parent. After three years of non-stop partying, she began staying home and making new rules and setting boundaries where before there were none.
As you might guess, that didn’t sit too well with me. I was angry and resentful about everything I’d had to endure – everything I hadn’t been protected from. I felt it was way too late for my mom to get all protective now.
By then, I’d learned that in order to survive I had to fend for myself. I loved my mom but felt I had no one I could truly depend on but me. The abuse was still going on in Hank’s mother’s house, and there was no one I could talk to about it – certainly not my mother, whose burdens I was trying to lighten, not make heavier. I was on my own, taking on more and more responsibility, losing more and more of any innocence I had left until there was none left at all. At age ten, I was already a grown-up.
And so when my mom tried to become a parent to me again, I fought her tooth and nail. Anything she told me to do, I did the opposite. Any attempt to discipline me was met with screams and defiance. We fought constantly about everything – cleaning my room, watching TV, doing my homework, you name it. She’d taken from me my chance to be a regular kid because of all the adult problems she’d unloaded on me, and I sure as heck wasn’t about to start being a kid now. And I hadn’t survived so many bad things as a child just to be thrust right back into childhood again. As far as I was concerned my childhood was over, and nothing was going to change that.
The next couple of years were a nightmare for us both. My mother would order me to do something; I’d refuse and talk back to her. She’d push me; I’d push her back. Before long we were having real, knockdown fights – wrestling with each other on the living room floor while a horrified Jayson looked on. Occasionally my mom would try to discipline us by spanking us or hitting us with a wooden spoon or a belt. But those punishments would only enrage me, and I’d strike back with all my might. When I was twelve, we got into a particularly nasty fight. I don’t remember if she was trying to spank me with a hairbrush or what, but I do remember that I pushed her really hard. She pushed me back, and I toppled through a shower door and into the bathtub.
For me, that fight – on top of everything that was happening at Hank’s mother’s house – was more than I could handle. The next day, I took what little money I’d saved from babysitting neighborhood kids, and I told my mom I wanted to buy her lunch at Braum’s. We had sandwiches and ice cream, and when it was over I told my mother what I’d come to say. She listened to me, then lowered her head, and broke down into tears.
I told my mother I was leaving home. And I did.