Lost In Transit
As submitted to RECOVERY FROM MORMONISM forum boards under theName of "theSam!!"
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Subject: Lost In Transit....
Date: Dec 29 03:43
Author: theSam!!
-Sleep was fitful that night, I'd wake up expecting to hear Mom yelling at Daddy again and storming off into theNight but I never did.
All I heard was the soft sighs of lil'Sister in the bed next to mine and the quick breaths of my infant brother in his crib,
Daddy had taken us Lamanites off theRez (the Indian Reservation), but he couldn't take theRezLife out of Mom,
she'd go a few months sober and clean and then, would go out drinking for a few days and would leave us kids with Daddy,
Now adays WIC, OCS and a host of other "childrensServices" advocates flanked by Police officers would noKnock a house or an apt if they even suspected childNeglect/Abuse/or otherEndangerment, if they even got an anonymous tip!!,
but back then, you could live next door to an Officer and wouldn't know it no matter who screamed and shouted for hours late at night and into the early morning,
But I had theFortune of growing up in the 1970's!!,
when thePopo and other Authority figures turned a blind eye to SpousalAbuse, Battery, Assault and other forms of domesticViolence that is still rampant today in 2008.
Underneath theQuiet veneer of Whiteness and a BlueEyed handsome face my whiteStepDad was a monster, he didn't hurt us kids, though he tried once, and never beat me or spanked my baby sister again,
but his wrath knew no restraints when turned upon my mother, and he had no excuse, cos he never drank or drugged, he'd just smoke a cigarette now and then and have a cup of coffee,
and I'd still see him sitting there smiling at me at the kitchen table almost 30yrs later, while I in Village Public Safety Officer uniform was busy photographing a youngVillageBeauty's bruised tender face for Proof to theCityMagistrate of her BoyFriends constant abuse and beatings,
she'd stoicly face me and I'd wide angle *click*, zoom in *click* and then wide angle another bruised feature, she'd then turn her face, and I'd capture theStrangle marks upon her neck and under her jaw, repeating each time theWideAngleView and then zooming in,
and then the back of her neck too and her back, but with with theVillage!! beauties it was always theNeck that was ligature marked and hand printed hours even days after theDrunken assaults,
later she'd disrobe one arm from her T-shirt and unhook her bra, and lift a breast to reveal purple and yellow hued ribs where she got kicked and beaten with a small .22rifle barrel,
other villageBeauties got it easy and just endured fists and feet, one pregnant girl got knocked down by a pickup truck and then was beaten by a stillFull!! vodka bottle, and still I'd see each time I had to document any "reported" assaults in theVillage!!,
my SonyCamera flash would quietly pop and fizz and, just for an inkling of a second, like, when shutting off theLights in total darkness,
you glimpse Other things unWorldly next to you on the trail end of theFlashing light that your mind & Imagination!! has quietly dwelt upon during the last hours of your day, and theFace, OR faces of my villageBeauties beaten and bruised would be replaced by theFace of Mom,
Back then in the70's, when TBM Dad took us off theRez (reservation), he'd be like that modern day "TomHanks" movie sleeve box, "theGreenMile" and him theFace of Innocence, a retouched Gibson painting of purity and white innocence, oh how cruel he was with his Prisoners and to that hulk of aBlackMan that was theDeathRowInmate,
but Daddy was like that too in many ways, he was White, Delightsome and had a steady job and gave us a home and always put food on the table, we always had clothes on our backs and shoes on our feet, but my Mother and us Kids paid dearly for such things,
I really wish Monson and Benson and Kimball and theOtherMorg prophets were there with us Kids at that time frame to see just how much we were a TBM mormon family.
-Sleep finally came and soon I was woken by Daddy, he fed us kids and put my jacket on me then sent me out the door.
I trudged silently a few blocks south, then cut through a few people's yards and behind some business' and then found the main street that led to the local grade school where my OnAgain-OffAgain presence was quietly noticed and Noted by every schoolKid there with happilyMarried White parents that were friends with each other,
only did thePrettyGirl with BrownHair smile at me and call me "sammy" every time she saw me.
Later that day after a diet of Doctor Suess and a few hours of Bert & Ernie on tv followed by a Hotdogs & chips lunch and some activeRecess!! did I return sullenly to my Daddy's home in that small quiet town in South Dakota.
Each day was the same it seemed, boredome, then sheer terror for days and finally rest from theParents fighting and the uncertainty, then theNormanRockwell ideals of family would come, like, my Dad's GermanParents would visit from across town and I'd wrinkle my young Lakota nose at BoiledCabbage, sourKraut and giant hotdogs (keilbasa!?)
and grampa & grandma German would laugh and talk theOldTongue and I was relegated once again to "You'll eat it or see it again for breakfast!!" comedy relief for everyone and a large, TALL german Woman would hold me on her knee and play a version of "head-shoulders-knees and toes with me in her NativeGerman language,
then some stability would come to theHousehold, but little did I know that my germanGrandmother was just as victimized as theRest of us kids and myMother!!,
for she too was often abused physically and beaten, berated and ashamed like my Mom was by Daddy,
strange what you find days weeks months, Years afterwards about people.
theMemories of such things tug at you, pull at your heart, pang your soul like hunger and stir indigination up in your heart because, back then Abuse was all around and you were too little, too immature and not grown up YET enough to do anything about it,
-A couple days ago, here in 2008, I was combing my short CloseCut!! hair after a shower and tugged on an grownOut, elongated section of hair on theCrown of my head, and a memory creeped into theBathroom where I stood
I found it one day (in the 1970's) while rummaging through my parents stuff in their bedroom one after noon after I came home from gradeschool and no on was there at the house,
my mind still freshly imprinted with last nights shouting and Mom storming off replaying, I started to look for the source of her discontent but, to my young childish searchings, I found nothing,
but then it caught my eye, it was a beautiful necklace of Gold,
It was shaped and fashioned like something an EgyptianPharoah would wear, it was a Scorpion.
My 6yr old curiosity made me try it on my small head and it couldn't fit, (I had not yet discovered thePracticalness of clasps and fasteners on jewelry quite yet)
my hair crinkled and snagged and pulled and some hair pulledOut!! as I slipped theElaborate necklace over my tiny head,
then I was draped in its weight and heft, almost like Daddy when he'd talk to me and attempt to reassure me-he'd put a hand on my lil' Lamanite shoulders,
it seemed that ever afterwards, any responsibility I bore- from my teen years of helping to work several days a week through school to support myself or my own family,
and through my first military stint as a ParachuteRigger when my FlightOfficers depended upon me to have their flightSuits ready and stocked with bits of food & survival gear to Weapons & Comms devices,
to my civilian career and juggling WhipLash, Trauma patients and Pregnant women around in my Massage practice, to theVillage years when other people's lives were in my hands each day-did I once again feel my Daddy's hands upon my shoulders,
Taking off theNecklace was equally arduous and uncomfortable, but day after day, for who knows how long after wards,
when no one was at home, I'd find that gold necklace and put it on and look at myself in theMirror, theCracked, broken spider webbed (up in theCorner!!) mirror that I knew my Mother looked into every day and I'd wonder why theScorpion Necklace pressed into my shoulders just the way Daddy's hands did when he touched me.
I don't know what became of that trinket necklace, Mom somehow lost it along with many things of my childhood that I once knew before I got sent away on IndianStudent Placement,
Even during my military years,
after a quick stop in Palma deMallorca!! spain,
I walked into a shop along an ave of theAmericas and pointed up at a flimsyBlack woman'sShawl on display,
me theNeedy-Greedy!!American serviceMan was immediately appeased by theShopKeeper whom, with boxes and boxes and boxes of such similar shawls for Sale,
did climb a ladder and quietly mutter in Spanish to his lovely wife,
then, I in my TBM induced piety, did realize that I shouldn't have done that and rather, instead should have relegated myself to the choices at hand rather than to demand a DisplayModel,
and I apologized profusely and was met by a rather insightful kindness from theShopKeeper, whom seemed to know about my Heritage (of NativeAmericana) and knew of our subjugation and our "Plight" ever after by whiteAmericana!!
He knew all that and he also knew, even that beautifully embroidered, elaborate Flimsy and thin woman's shawl that I sent back home to Mother-Would and Did get lost by her in transit her TBM'ness during times she moved in my absence,
Materials get lost, things get misplaced,
I just wish some memories would get lost as well.
theSam!!
SLFlyinghorse
-----
Samuel L Flyinghorse
Anchorage, AK
AlaskaVillageTales dot blogspot dot com
----------
Subject: Lost In Transit....
Date: Dec 29 03:43
Author: theSam!!
-Sleep was fitful that night, I'd wake up expecting to hear Mom yelling at Daddy again and storming off into theNight but I never did.
All I heard was the soft sighs of lil'Sister in the bed next to mine and the quick breaths of my infant brother in his crib,
Daddy had taken us Lamanites off theRez (the Indian Reservation), but he couldn't take theRezLife out of Mom,
she'd go a few months sober and clean and then, would go out drinking for a few days and would leave us kids with Daddy,
Now adays WIC, OCS and a host of other "childrensServices" advocates flanked by Police officers would noKnock a house or an apt if they even suspected childNeglect/Abuse/or otherEndangerment, if they even got an anonymous tip!!,
but back then, you could live next door to an Officer and wouldn't know it no matter who screamed and shouted for hours late at night and into the early morning,
But I had theFortune of growing up in the 1970's!!,
when thePopo and other Authority figures turned a blind eye to SpousalAbuse, Battery, Assault and other forms of domesticViolence that is still rampant today in 2008.
Underneath theQuiet veneer of Whiteness and a BlueEyed handsome face my whiteStepDad was a monster, he didn't hurt us kids, though he tried once, and never beat me or spanked my baby sister again,
but his wrath knew no restraints when turned upon my mother, and he had no excuse, cos he never drank or drugged, he'd just smoke a cigarette now and then and have a cup of coffee,
and I'd still see him sitting there smiling at me at the kitchen table almost 30yrs later, while I in Village Public Safety Officer uniform was busy photographing a youngVillageBeauty's bruised tender face for Proof to theCityMagistrate of her BoyFriends constant abuse and beatings,
she'd stoicly face me and I'd wide angle *click*, zoom in *click* and then wide angle another bruised feature, she'd then turn her face, and I'd capture theStrangle marks upon her neck and under her jaw, repeating each time theWideAngleView and then zooming in,
and then the back of her neck too and her back, but with with theVillage!! beauties it was always theNeck that was ligature marked and hand printed hours even days after theDrunken assaults,
later she'd disrobe one arm from her T-shirt and unhook her bra, and lift a breast to reveal purple and yellow hued ribs where she got kicked and beaten with a small .22rifle barrel,
other villageBeauties got it easy and just endured fists and feet, one pregnant girl got knocked down by a pickup truck and then was beaten by a stillFull!! vodka bottle, and still I'd see each time I had to document any "reported" assaults in theVillage!!,
my SonyCamera flash would quietly pop and fizz and, just for an inkling of a second, like, when shutting off theLights in total darkness,
you glimpse Other things unWorldly next to you on the trail end of theFlashing light that your mind & Imagination!! has quietly dwelt upon during the last hours of your day, and theFace, OR faces of my villageBeauties beaten and bruised would be replaced by theFace of Mom,
Back then in the70's, when TBM Dad took us off theRez (reservation), he'd be like that modern day "TomHanks" movie sleeve box, "theGreenMile" and him theFace of Innocence, a retouched Gibson painting of purity and white innocence, oh how cruel he was with his Prisoners and to that hulk of aBlackMan that was theDeathRowInmate,
but Daddy was like that too in many ways, he was White, Delightsome and had a steady job and gave us a home and always put food on the table, we always had clothes on our backs and shoes on our feet, but my Mother and us Kids paid dearly for such things,
I really wish Monson and Benson and Kimball and theOtherMorg prophets were there with us Kids at that time frame to see just how much we were a TBM mormon family.
-Sleep finally came and soon I was woken by Daddy, he fed us kids and put my jacket on me then sent me out the door.
I trudged silently a few blocks south, then cut through a few people's yards and behind some business' and then found the main street that led to the local grade school where my OnAgain-OffAgain presence was quietly noticed and Noted by every schoolKid there with happilyMarried White parents that were friends with each other,
only did thePrettyGirl with BrownHair smile at me and call me "sammy" every time she saw me.
Later that day after a diet of Doctor Suess and a few hours of Bert & Ernie on tv followed by a Hotdogs & chips lunch and some activeRecess!! did I return sullenly to my Daddy's home in that small quiet town in South Dakota.
Each day was the same it seemed, boredome, then sheer terror for days and finally rest from theParents fighting and the uncertainty, then theNormanRockwell ideals of family would come, like, my Dad's GermanParents would visit from across town and I'd wrinkle my young Lakota nose at BoiledCabbage, sourKraut and giant hotdogs (keilbasa!?)
and grampa & grandma German would laugh and talk theOldTongue and I was relegated once again to "You'll eat it or see it again for breakfast!!" comedy relief for everyone and a large, TALL german Woman would hold me on her knee and play a version of "head-shoulders-knees and toes with me in her NativeGerman language,
then some stability would come to theHousehold, but little did I know that my germanGrandmother was just as victimized as theRest of us kids and myMother!!,
for she too was often abused physically and beaten, berated and ashamed like my Mom was by Daddy,
strange what you find days weeks months, Years afterwards about people.
theMemories of such things tug at you, pull at your heart, pang your soul like hunger and stir indigination up in your heart because, back then Abuse was all around and you were too little, too immature and not grown up YET enough to do anything about it,
-A couple days ago, here in 2008, I was combing my short CloseCut!! hair after a shower and tugged on an grownOut, elongated section of hair on theCrown of my head, and a memory creeped into theBathroom where I stood
I found it one day (in the 1970's) while rummaging through my parents stuff in their bedroom one after noon after I came home from gradeschool and no on was there at the house,
my mind still freshly imprinted with last nights shouting and Mom storming off replaying, I started to look for the source of her discontent but, to my young childish searchings, I found nothing,
but then it caught my eye, it was a beautiful necklace of Gold,
It was shaped and fashioned like something an EgyptianPharoah would wear, it was a Scorpion.
My 6yr old curiosity made me try it on my small head and it couldn't fit, (I had not yet discovered thePracticalness of clasps and fasteners on jewelry quite yet)
my hair crinkled and snagged and pulled and some hair pulledOut!! as I slipped theElaborate necklace over my tiny head,
then I was draped in its weight and heft, almost like Daddy when he'd talk to me and attempt to reassure me-he'd put a hand on my lil' Lamanite shoulders,
it seemed that ever afterwards, any responsibility I bore- from my teen years of helping to work several days a week through school to support myself or my own family,
and through my first military stint as a ParachuteRigger when my FlightOfficers depended upon me to have their flightSuits ready and stocked with bits of food & survival gear to Weapons & Comms devices,
to my civilian career and juggling WhipLash, Trauma patients and Pregnant women around in my Massage practice, to theVillage years when other people's lives were in my hands each day-did I once again feel my Daddy's hands upon my shoulders,
Taking off theNecklace was equally arduous and uncomfortable, but day after day, for who knows how long after wards,
when no one was at home, I'd find that gold necklace and put it on and look at myself in theMirror, theCracked, broken spider webbed (up in theCorner!!) mirror that I knew my Mother looked into every day and I'd wonder why theScorpion Necklace pressed into my shoulders just the way Daddy's hands did when he touched me.
I don't know what became of that trinket necklace, Mom somehow lost it along with many things of my childhood that I once knew before I got sent away on IndianStudent Placement,
Even during my military years,
after a quick stop in Palma deMallorca!! spain,
I walked into a shop along an ave of theAmericas and pointed up at a flimsyBlack woman'sShawl on display,
me theNeedy-Greedy!!American serviceMan was immediately appeased by theShopKeeper whom, with boxes and boxes and boxes of such similar shawls for Sale,
did climb a ladder and quietly mutter in Spanish to his lovely wife,
then, I in my TBM induced piety, did realize that I shouldn't have done that and rather, instead should have relegated myself to the choices at hand rather than to demand a DisplayModel,
and I apologized profusely and was met by a rather insightful kindness from theShopKeeper, whom seemed to know about my Heritage (of NativeAmericana) and knew of our subjugation and our "Plight" ever after by whiteAmericana!!
He knew all that and he also knew, even that beautifully embroidered, elaborate Flimsy and thin woman's shawl that I sent back home to Mother-Would and Did get lost by her in transit her TBM'ness during times she moved in my absence,
Materials get lost, things get misplaced,
I just wish some memories would get lost as well.
theSam!!
SLFlyinghorse
-----
Samuel L Flyinghorse
Anchorage, AK
AlaskaVillageTales dot blogspot dot com
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