They Never Knew

I felt so blessed as a child, because I was one of the few children, in my class at school that did not come from a broken home. I lived with both my parents, and I was so happy to have both of them around. I closed my eyes to the problems that were between them because I wanted things to remain as they were. My mother was very young when she got married, only 13, years old. I couldn't imagine letting one of my daughters date at that age, not to mention, get married that young. Thirteen is just a child. I had just graduated playing with dolls when I was 11 years old. But, in those days, back in 1926, when my parents were married, there were probably, quite a few child brides. My mother was only 14 years older than my oldest brother, her first child. I remember her as a hard worker, and a church person. I remember the religious rules that we lived by. On Saturday nights she did all the cooking and cleaning. There was no cooking, or cleaning the house on Sundays. We didn't do any work on Sundays. We couldn't even have friends over to play on that day. That was the day of rest in our household.

My mother had the most beautiful voice. We loved listening to her sing? She didn't sing on the church choir because she never learned to read or write. She was in a wheel chair most of her childhood. She was somewhere around 11 years old when she walked again. Her mother died at child birth, when she was born. Her father never sent her to school; probably because she was handicapped.

My father was at least twelve years older than my mother. My father went through World War I and II. After he got an honorably discharged from the army, he worked on minimum wage jobs. He had very little education. He did not complete high school. I remember my father drinking every day except Sundays. I don't remember him getting really drunk. He would have one or two drinks a day; mostly beer. On Sundays, he would put on his reading glass and sit on his favorite chair and read from the bible for at least an hour. He and my mother had arguments. They also, had lots of fun and good times. I remember playing lots of family games with both parents involved. I remember the laughter. My father was good with the children as far as fun times. We had story times, he told the best stories. I believe he improvised on most of them. He just made them up of the top of his head. We didn't watch a lot of T. V. Actually we didn't own a T. V. until I was around twelve years old. We had so much fun with out it. There was the radio. My mother used to listen to her soaps on the radio. Boxing, ball games, all that was enjoyed on the radio.

Those were the good old fun days. I didn't even realize that we were poor. We never missed a meal. We went to school well dressed. We had one bicycle that we shared. We had so much fun making our flying kites using news paper, and sticks, and using kitchen flour to make the paste. My younger sister and I pulled grass roots from the yard and washed the roots and braided it for hair, this was called a grass doll. We made mud pies. It didn't have a name in those days, but, we made our own skate boards and go carts. We used old car tires and hung them from trees with a very strong rope, and used it as a swing. We also made up song and dance shows and performed them for our parents. We had a large walk- in play house in the back yard, where we kept all of our toys. We spent a lot of time in the play house. I believe my dad built it. He was very good with his hands. He built tables and chairs for different people. He built a lot of extra money that way.

Most Christmas we didn't get a lot. We watched our friends roll out their big bicycles and other fancy toys. We never felt bad or jealous. We were taught that we only got what we could afford, without going into debt. Sometimes, I did wish I could get a special doll or something; for Christmas; but, I knew if we couldn't afford it, we didn't get it. We were taught that Christmas was a religious Holiday; Jesus Birthday; not a day to go into debt. When my parents could afford it we did get better things. And we got gifts at our birthdays. Sometimes they were small and sometimes they were large. We always appreciate what we got. My older brothers and sisters knew a different Christmas than my younger sister and I knew. There was more money. There were more toys at Christmas. My father hardly touched a drink when they were young. I guess after going through two wars and seeing so much; it can change a person even though they survived with no major injuries. I didn't know anything about my father's war experience. He told many stories at story hour. Not once did he tell a war story. He never talked about his experience in two major wars.

Every Easter we got new Easter clothes and hats for the girls. I sang on the children's choir and later the teen choir at church. All the children and my mother went to Sunday school and church most every Sunday. One year, I went on a Sunday school convention. I was the little star. I did well, my pastor told me. I answered all the questions they put to us about the bible. I was runner up in the little spelling bee. I lost out to a seventeen year old boy. I was eleven years old. I was so angry at myself. I spelled all those hard words. I had two chances to spell David. That's the word I missed. After two chances, I still spelled David with a lower case "d". I knew better. I knew that all proper names began with an upper case letter. I guess I was too overly excited. When I left that convention every body was coming up to me with comments. My pastor was in shock. He didn't even know that I read the bible so thoroughly, at eleven years old. I guess I copied my father, I saw him reading the bible every Sunday, I was curious. When I started reading the bible; I found the stories interesting. If I didn't understand something; I would go back and read it again. My other siblings were not as active in church as I was. However, they did go to church regularly.

I was also, an "A" plus student in school. It just came natural. I read a lot. I did all of my home work. School was interesting for me. My favorite subject was math. I loved algebra. At the end of the school year; I always got the award for being the smartest of the entire grade level that I was in. My brother, who was four grades ahead of me, was almost a genius in my eye sights. He didn't like school. It was very boring for him. He was so smart, he missed two and three weeks at a time and when he returned; he helped the teachers. I believe he was the smartest kid at school. Everyone went to him for help. I don't know why he didn't like school. At home he was always reading; or solving some math problems. He was a book worm. In these days he couldn't dream of missing that many days from school; not only one day, without parent permission. He graduated an "A" student. He went to college and held down a very good position while he was alive. He died at an early age, 52; a second heart attack killed him. He was also an artist. He did a lot of art work for his children's school according to his wife. Music, art, writing, and once in a generation an extra smart student runs in my family. There has never been another person in my family as smart as my brother was.

Back to when I was a kid. I had so many plans for college. I wanted to be an attorney or a teacher. I was a straight "A" student in school; there wouldn't be a problem getting into college. However, all that was suddenly changed. That same year that I went to the Sunday school convention; something happened to me that turned my life around forever. My life changed so fast and so drastic; I didn't even know what was happening to me.

Both of my older sisters worked at a hotel after school. They cleaned rooms and worked in the linen room folding linens. My younger sister's boyfriend worked in the kitchen, after school. My cousin, an adult male, also, worked at the hotel as a bell hop. He carried luggage to the rooms; and did room service calls. There was a quiet man approximately 25 years old that worked at the hotel. He was called the vacuum man. That's what my sisters and I called him. He vacuumed all the rooms and the halls; upstairs and down stairs. We always saw him in the halls vacuuming. He kept to himself. And he was very quiet and shy. When someone spoke to him, he held his head down and said "HI." I thought he didn't like these people speaking to him or bothering him. So I just passed by without saying anything.

I wanted to work but I was too young. I was just as tall as my older sisters and even taller than one of them. I didn't understand why I couldn't work. My sisters said, okay, if it's alright with our mother and the hotel manager, they would let me come by after school and help them fold linens. Since I would not be working for the hotel, and just helping them out, they would both give me a little money out of their pay checks.

This was one of the top rated hotels where I lived. My mother said yes. The hotel manager knew my most of my family. He okayed it. I was a big help to my sisters. I folded linens for them. They were able to get off work early. It didn't matter what time they left work just as long as they finished their jobs. It was fun walking home with my big sisters at night. Sometimes we would go to a scary movie, if they finished work early enough. One movie was so scary; we ran all the way home instead of walking. Those were the good old days. Children and teens could walk at night and didn't have to worry about all the things that are happening today.

One day, I got to the hotel early, as I often did. I got out of school earlier than my older sisters did. My sister forgot to give me the keys to the linen room, so I sat on the stair steps to wait. The stairway was right next to the linen room. I sat there for five minutes or so. Suddenly I was afraid; I sensed someone or something starring at me from behind. I jumped up and looked around. I was so relieved; it was just the vacuum man, just standing there. "Don't do that", I said, "you really frightened me" I got off the stair steps and moved to the side, out of his way so he could get down, with his vacuum. I thought I was in his way, and he was too shy to ask me to move.

He came down the stairs pulling the vacuum behind him. Then he suddenly dropped the vacuum cleaner to the floor. He almost dived on me and started attacking me, trying to kiss me, and pulling on my clothes, his hands were all over my body. I thought he was going to kill me. I feared for my life. I fought him with all the strength that I had. I scratched; kicked, punched, I did it all. I kept thinking; I won't let him rape me, I won't let him kill me. I tried; but I could not scream. I opened my mouth to scream; I was so scared, no sound came out. I was only 11 years old and a little skinny for my age and height. I don't know where the strength came from. I was fighting back hard. I believed that I was in the fight for my life. I got the chance to give a good kick right where it hurt the most for any male. He let go and bent over in pain. I ran for dear life. Even though I left him buckled over in pain. I just knew he was coming after me.

I ran past my cousin, the bell hop, he held a tray of food in one hand, high over his shoulders. He reached for me with the other hand saying something. I don't know what he was saying. I was afraid of him at that moment. I ran fast past him, I ran all the way home.

It was my father's day off work. I busted through the unlocked living room door. My father was singing one of his favorite hymns, He sang "put it in your bosom; tie it up; take it to the Lord" When I rushed through the door. He immediately stopped singing, with both hands reached out he started coming after me, I thought. His mouth was moving; I don't know what he was saying. I was so afraid of him. I backed up until I was out of the door. I ran to a big tree in my neighbor's backyard and hid there. Nobody ever came to that tree. It was far back in the yard. I forgot that I must have looked a mess. My poor, dad, I thought he too was going to attack me. Poor man was probably upset when he saw me, and coming to me, asking what was the matter. At this point; I didn't consider that. I was too afraid. I heard my dad, out side calling my name, over and over again. I could just pray "Please, don't let him find me". Finally, he gave up and went back inside. I didn't move out of my safe spot.

After about an hour or so, I heard a car pull up outside the house. I peeked from behind the tree. My dad came out of the house and got into the car. After the car pulled off with him inside, I ran to the house, unlocked the door and let myself inside. I passed by the mirror, Boy! Did I look a mess! I took an extra long bubble bath. I put on fresh clothes and combed my hair. I threw the clothes that I was wearing in the trash. I couldn't stop shaking or crying. I jumped at every sound.

I felt faint. I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I was drinking from the glass of water when I heard loud knocking on the door. I jumped. The glass fell from my hands and shattered on the floor. Then I heard the voice of my mother's friend.
"Open the door. Come on open the door, I know you're in there." There were more knocks. "open the door, I'm not leaving." I slowly walked to the front door and opened it. My mother's friend stood at the door. "Do you know your dad is out looking for you? He said you ran out of the house and he didn't know where you went. He seemed worried."
"I'm, Okay"
"You don't look, okay, you look scared to death. And you're shaking."
"I'm fine."
"If you were fighting with some kid at school, you know your mother isn't going to like that. If I see your, dad I'll let him know you're alright"

I was relieved when she left. I didn't feel like talking to anyone. I cleaned up the glass and water from the kitchen floor. I didn't know what to do next. I didn't feel safe. If she told my dad that I was at home. He would probably come back. I sat down by the kitchen door. My dad always came through the front door. If I heard him opening the front door; I could just slip out the back door.

I must have fallen to sleep. The next thing I remembered was my mother standing over me.
"Why are you sleeping on the kitchen floor?"
"I was just resting, I fell asleep.
" Maybe, helping your sisters out after school is too much for you, you should think about quitting, at least until school is out."
" Okay"
"That was easy. You must be burnt out."

There were so many questions about the fight everyone thought I was in with some kid from school. And questions about why did I run out of the house the way I did? I thought I was going to explode. I couldn't talk about what happened. It was too horrible to talk about. I was too scary to talk about. I didn't want to talk about it . I wanted it all to go away. I wanted it to just disappear. It was too horrible. How could I tell my family about something this horrible. I asked my mother to please, let me alone. I was too tired. I lied. My mother agreed that must be it. I was worn out from helping my sisters out at the hotel; and keeping up with my school grades. She said that I couldn't go back to the hotel after school any more.

My sisters were also full of questioned, my cousin told them how I ran past him, nearly knocking the tray from his hand. I said to tell him I was sorry. I had to get home. I was in a hurry. Everyone soon decided that their questions were getting nowhere, so they decided to back off and give me a break. My sisters told me that the man who vacuumed the halls , left his vacuum cleaner in front of the linen room door and just too off. He didn't show back up to work. Nobody knew what happened or why he walked off the job that way. He could get fired if he doesn't have a good excuse when he shows back up to work, she added.

I made sure that I stayed out of my father's way. I would never be in the house alone with him. I would never let myself be in a room alone with him. I was convinced that he was going to hurt me if he got the chance. I was no longer a part of the story telling hour. I always made the excuse that I had too much homework. In my mind, he looked at me differently than he did before. His smile was no longer friendly. He scared me so much. It was sad because I really enjoyed the story telling hours, and the family games.

My school grades started falling. I could no longer concentrate. The night mares were so real. Sometimes I could actually feel the pressure of a huge monster climbing on me and holding me down while I struggled to get up. It always seemed too real. Then I would wake up. Then there were the nightly nightmares. I had the same dream night after night. My attacker was chasing me. I ran, I swam, and I hid from him behind the tree in my neighbor's yard, he would always be just a step behind me. He had the body of my attacker, but, he had no face. His face was blank. Always, at the end of the dream when he was right there and reached out and almost caught me, I would look around and he would have the face of my father. The dreams were non stop. I tried not to fall asleep. I didn't want to have those dreams. I didn't want to have that, much too real, hallucination of the monster wrestling with me.

My family must have been worried. Because one day my mother told me that my dad was taking me in to see the family doctor. I didn't want to go. I certainly didn't want my dad to take me. I had no choice. I had to see the family doctor. I had to go with my dad. On the way to the doctor; I didn't walk with my dad. I walked ahead of him; to and from the doctor's office.

At the doctor's office, the physician told me that my family was worried about my sudden personality change. They were worried that I fell from a straight "A" student to a "C" and "D" student. They were worried that I wasn't getting enough sleep. The doctor asked if I was having problems at school or at home. I said no. If I told him that I was afraid of my own dad; he would probably though I was crazy. I was very tempted to tell him about the man that attacked me, but, it was just too hard to talk about. Every one came to the conclusion that it was going through a phrase.

The problems were building up between my parents. I didn't notice because I was wrapped up in my on world. When my parents separated, I was so happy. I didn't have to be in the same house with my dad. I loved him, but I was horrified of him. It wasn't just my father that bothered me. My sisters told me that the students at school were beginning to talk about me. People were beginning to believe that I was afraid of boys. I wasn't afraid I told my sisters. Boys are just annoying. "Well," my oldest sister said, "what ever it is. You need to snap out of it. My friend said he tried to ask you if I was home; when he saw you at the store. He said you walked away so fast he thought you were going to run."

The night mares never lightened up. It was the same occurring night mares night after night. And they lasted for many years.

When I was about twenty years old, I decided to write about my experience. I couldn't talk about it to anyone, So, I decided to write everything that I could remember down on paper. I was hoping it would help. My mother always said one should get their problems off their chest. I now understood what she meant. I remembered everything except my attackers face. Writing about what happened was very hard at first. I could get so far and had to stop. All the fears of that little frightened girl that lived inside of me would come out. I kept trying. It took weeks, but, one day the words flowed across the paper. I always threw the papers away that I wrote. I told myself that I was throwing away my fears. I wrote the story down about a dozen times, before I figured it out. After I figured everything out the night mares stopped. My attacker no longer had control of my life.

My father never tried to harm me. That day when I ran into the house, and my father came rushing toward me. I looked a mess. I was scared. My clothes and hair was a mess. He was probably asking what the matter was. He was probably trying to help me. He was concerned.

I was probably trying so hard to forget my attacker; I forgot what he looked like. My father was the first man I came face to face with after the attack. In my night mares, I replaced my attacker's face with my father's face. Even till this day, I cannot remember the face of my attacker. I saw him almost every day until the attack. I can't explain what happened. I forgot his face immediately. He still remains faceless.

I finally had my life back. It took about nine years, but, the nightmares were over and my father's name was cleared for me. I am so sorry for what I put the family through. If only I had the courage to tell just one person, maybe things would have been better. Nothing would have stopped the separation between my parents that was problems they shared between themselves. However, I would have had a better relationship with my father. I wouldn't have been so afraid of him. I still don't know what made me so terrified of him. Until this day, I wish I had the nerve to tell.

My attacker never showed back up to work. Nobody ever knew why. No one knew what happened to him. I often wonder, if he ever attacked another child or worst. I wonder if he ever raped a child or children. If I had the courage to tell, maybe he would have been stopped. I don't know. However, I believe my family could have helped me through that terrible ordeal. Maybe the nightmares wouldn't have lasted nine years. My grades probably wouldn't have suffered.

My attacker took away so much from me. If child molesters only knew how much they take away from children and their families. This man took away my childhood. He replaced my sleep with endless nightmares. I went from an "A" student to a child who couldn't concentrate. He took away the father that I loved spending time with. He took away my favorite story telling hour. Because of what he did to me; I was afraid to be around my own father.

I went through all this agony; from fighting off a would be rapist or kidnapper or maybe even a killer. I cannot begin to imagine what a child or even a grown up goes through, that has actually been raped or kidnapped. If any body out there are ever molested or raped, Please, please, tell somebody. If you think it's too hard to tell. It's 100 times harder keeping it all inside.

Both my parents died and they never knew. They never knew what caused the drastic change in their little girl. Because I couldn't find the courage to tell, I suffered for many years. It was too much for any child to handle alone.

The good news is, before my father died, we became close again. We lived three thousands miles apart, however, we communicated by mail and by telephone regularly. My mother and I lived near each others up until she passed.

They both died without knowing my secret. I never told them. They never knew.