Parents of Privilege, Parents of Hate. (Trigger Warning)

Sometimes I want to just change my blog’s name to Trigger Warning. Sometimes I feel I cannot escape the depths of the darkness in my life in order to write something happy. There is a post in the works that is actually just some goofing off but this post has to come first. I just wish I didn’t find out things in this way. Some of the language in this post will be triggering based on abuse. Some will be triggering based on the entirely racist statements made or statements of privilege that are related to sexism, gender, and sexuality. In this post I will be displaying some very upsetting things from my past, because blogging about them helps me contain them and I have learned other people benefit from knowing they are not alone. Please click the link below to read the article. The first time I met Racism where it wasn’t the subtle sort on the TV, the sort in the church, or the sort that I couldn’t quite name but it was distant and mild and my brain didn’t really comprehend it at all I was five. My parents were freshly seperated, and I was in the court mandated visits with my father. Yes, a court mandated I had to see him knowing he was a predator, knowing his children feared him, and knowing that none us wanted to visit him. A court mandated that we had to do this despite the recommendations of a children’s advocate and children’s psychologist based on their creepy court doctor’s opposing opinion. A man who would not let me speak because girls have no opinion. Yes he said that.

I was alone, as happened often as my older siblings had more voice and I still feel more value. My father had me on a week day, he may have actually kidnapped me. He did this periodically with no long term or short term repercussions except for us. No jail time, no police. I was playing outside watching the way the ants moved and I was about to touch them. The bright red bodies looked so pretty. She called out, “Don’t do that!” I looked up and I saw someone I had never met before. I thought she was pretty and I instantly wanted to look like her.

“Why not?”  She smiled and pulled my hands away.  “They’ll bite and it really hurts. Want to play barbies upstairs?” I went with her willingly, and it turned out her father’s apartment was right across from ours. I was staring at her, as I do new people. She asked me why. “You’re different and pretty, I want to memorize you.” She thought that was funny. I remember thinking the apartment smelled a bit funny. That was the smell of clean. We played with her dolls, and I asked her the usual racist questions a black woman gets about her hair, her skin, her eyes. I wasn’t asking in the context of racism. I was asking in the context of Autism.

I like to feel things. I have to. I once smeared my dinner on a van because I couldn’t stop. Sometimes I cannot stop my hands and I cry trying to fight that urge. I’ve found cheats. I am not sure if this is what stimming is. That’s a word I have heard other Autistic bloggers use but I am not sure it means what I think it does. I don’t really know how to clarify but for me the sensations and textures are important. My favorites are soft cat fur, velvet, silk, and the texture of freshly applied lipstick. My least favorite is sand paper. I wanted to know what her textures were because what a person feels like for me at that age especially was how I identified them. Her father watched us and didn’t stop me. She thought it was strange and said so.

“That’s not really what you’re supposed to ask when someone’s pretty, you really want to see what my skin feels like?”

She let me touch her hand again. I remember how smooth her hands were. The smoothness of children’s skin is of course used for advertisements and her skin felt like mine. I remember her letting me feel her braids, and laughin when I said “This is as nice as the kitty!” I never specified what kitty but she seemed to understand as did her father that my questions were out of my own differences. I see this in my older years, and I hope she remembers that as she ages.

We played every day for weeks. When the other people in the complex bullied the weird white girl, she would just comfort me and said things I find profound. “It’s not weird to be you, it’s not like you can help it.” She encouraged me to play. She was fascinated that I could read and some of our play was my trying to teach her how. She could pick out words like cat, dog, apple and she was learning quickly because she liked it. I remember wondering why her father was around all the time. I remember too that he only tried to touch me once and my reaction of terror stopped him cold.

I remember his eyes showing something that I think was pain. He let me come to him like you do with any beaten person or animal that you are trying to show affection. I never hugged him because hugs still terrify me. He let me hold his hands sometimes and he never once complained about my millions of questions. He showed me how to do things too. He showed me how to fold a shirt. I was fascinated by this small family. We never talked about how our parents were divorced. Everyone who lived there was divorced.

I wish I knew her name. It started with an M. Mary, Maria, Maya, Magnificent. My friend. I remember the jarring introduction that her color wasn’t just pretty. I moved past seeing my first black person rather quickly, once I knew she was just like me. She was so nice. My father came home from work. I’d spent the night with her family because I was locked outside. It was two or three days, my father hadn’t cared about my eating or sleeping at all but hers did. He stayed up until I couldn’t waiting for my father.

I remember the pounding on the door. The walls shook. I remember the jolt of fear. I knew who it was. I screamed for my new friends to not open the door. I knew that would be bad for them. The man looked at me a bit funny and said “That’s your father. You have to go. I wish you could stay.” There was this pause and I knew he meant it. I hugged my friend tightly and convinced her we had to hide. We went into the closet where we could still see out the cracks but were safe. My father didn’t say hello. He immediately began to beat hers. She almost cried out. I hurt her to keep her silent covering her mouth. “If he finds us, he’ll hit us that hard and that’s bad for you.”

My father didn’t say anything at all when he was hitting this man. He was in that rage space where his eyes said it all. They dialated fully as he enjoyed gratification and pleasure from the pain he caused this man. A man who I only remember warmly. A man who reminded me there was safe. A man who was likely risking hunger to feed and shelter me. A man who unlike my father was good. My friend was crying and she hugged me tightly. When my father stopped hitting hers, I crept out of the closet. I tried to keep her inside. She wouldn’t let me go. I knew he wouldn’t kill me this time because he had something else he wanted to hurt. It was obvious to me, just as when he’d try and run over hispanic people on the street.

“What are you doing with a pair of fucking niggers?”

I’d not heard the word before, just as I had been deprived of ever seeing a person of color up close before. I had been told stories of demons and he’d pointed at people of color as examples but my friends were not evil and I knew that right off. I already knew evil. It’s skin was very white. It’s eyes green I think, maybe blue. My father held the epitome’s of privilege and knew it. My friend had heard the word before. I could tell it was bad because she paled further and her shoulders went from straight, a strong mind a healthy mind and healthy confidence to a curled in position, to fear for her own safety based on her skin color.

I understood that was why he was calling her the names. “Daddy she’s not a nigger. She’s my friend.” He slapped me for saying that word, “You’re not old enough to talk that way.” Not that it was bad, but I already knew that. I never ever have called someone that word. I am having trouble writing this because that particular word is made out of hatred. There is no right for me to use it and only wrong. My father obviously knew that. In my house we were taught to be racist, to hate, but to hide it so that no one could be sure we were being racist. It was blatantly so. Her father laughed when I said what I had. I don’t understand why but it changed my father’s rage back to him.

He started hitting him again, he made him bleed. This time he yelled every slur that he could think of. Over and over. I hid my friend again, while he was distracted and returned to position. Waiting for my punishment for daring to find friendship. I knew it would be worse now because my friend was black. I mourn for her, for witnessing her father being beaten in  his own home. I mourn too because I understand as an adult why he did not dare hit back. My father would turn it around on him. I mourn however that I did not know I could call the police. I mourn that this man felt pain from the bastard that helped my mother give birth to me.

I never saw them after this. After the blood and screaming. They moved before sunset. They did the right thing. After the sun went down my father broke in and was enraged that he couldn’t murder that family. He discussed with me the finer points of gutting people of color. I am left to wonder if he did murder people. I have no doubts that he likely did and if so he got away with it. I have lived with this knowledge my entire life. I went back to my mother after this. He called her up angrily and said to come get me. I remember being so relieved to be safe.

I remember telling my mother about the incident and her words. I know in some ways what she did was not as bad as actually trying to murder them and beating that man. I know if I had not hidden her away to the best of my ability and been there to stop him he would’ve raped that girl as well. That was my biggest fear, that my monster of a father would hurt her like he had hurt me countless times. I remember fearing she would die. I knew I couldn’t be her friend. I remember the last thing I said. “I’m sorry my daddy’s so mean. I don’t think you’re bad. I’ll always be your friend from far away. I’ll always think you’re beautiful.” She was too afraid to speak. I think too that there was an element of betrayal. I, by being there, brought this monster into her home. The betrayal is something I felt. I cannot speak for her. I felt I had betrayed a sacred trust. I felt too I should’ve somehow known my father was a white supremacist masquerading as a good Christian man.

My mother shamed me for having a black friend. “We don’t associate with those people.” She then listed the lies about black men. “He could’ve raped you.” You mean like my father did for years before this? Nope. He couldn’t have and I knew it. IF he wanted to hurt me he would’ve had ample opportunity to do so before my father’s “rescue” as they called it. My mother actually told me that he had to have been saving me from monsters.

There is a moment I believe happens to every child when they see their parents can be very wrong. It can be over something small, it can be over something dire. Mine was that moment. I could not concieve of the first person to ask ME to play with her, the first person to treat me like a person, as a bad thing. A child my age wanting to play with me would not happen ever again. I was too weird,I was the freak, I was the person with no intrinsinct value.

I want to contrast as clearly as I can the differences between a rapist and the man that gave me shelter and suffered for it.

Rapists:

1. They don’t stop touching you when you say no

Good Men:

1. When you jerk away in fear they stop touching you and wait for you to start touch again if at all.

Rapists:

2. When you sleep, when you let your guard down, or just by over powering you they actually rape you.

Good Men:

2. When you sleep because you are so exhausted you cannot stay awake anymore they put a blanket over you and turn out the lights.

Rapists:

3. They subvert the truth, they lie, and they twist things so that you are to blame for your own rape.

Good men:

3. They DO NOT RAPE YOU.

Clear enough?

I tried to rebutt my mother’s arguments but I am five, I am shaken, I am afraid. She told me how ugly my friend was. That’s not what I saw. She told me how she would grow up to live on welfare and how this is inherently evil. My mother didn’t seem to realize I already knew SHE was on welfare. (Oops). My mother told me this little girl will be a whore. My mother wasn’t a whore, I want to say that clearly but at the same turn no woman is a whore from birth. My mother told me this girl just wanted to steal my things. My things? What things? I had no things for her to steal. She SHARED.

I didn’t know what to do. My parents were wrong. I thought my friend was going to be dead but my father raged about their escape. I took a beating for their escape. I took it not gladly but with relief that they weren’t dead. I would take that beating again and again. I would do anything to go back in time and undo that hate crime. This legally was definable as a hate crime. I wish I had not been a helpless child, and could’ve stopped the monster. I wanted to stop him every day after that.

Every single day that he was alive, every moment he was out there he was a threat to the world. He excused so much of his violence under the acts of Christianity. He excused it under the claim of protecting his family. He excused his racism with references again to the Christian Bible, and the lies the media sells us.

When he had me alone again after this he made me watch blacksploitation films. He showed me what he called the evils of black people. I just thought that the movies were bright and colorful. I really enjoyed Shaft. He tried to literally beat the concept that people of color are evil into me. I know this is the  extreme version of parents teaching children racism, because it for me wasn’t there. Yeah I can see that you are a different color than I am but I will not deny your humanity. He tried to make me. He tried the associations with animals. He tried to tell me that slavery was good and that black men were stealing jobs.

My father did get arrested once, though I do not know about jail time. It was for a hate crime.

How many hate crimes do the people who go to jail for them commit before someone takes action? I was not able to take action, I was being nearly killed daily by this bastard. My mother did not take action because she believes the isms too. My mother, proud tea bagger still thinks that health care which will save her own life and directly impacts her for the better with access to a doctor is the worst thing ever because Obama is BLACK.

Every instance of privilege bingo has a darker side. It has a side where people like this will take it and push it into their children’s minds. Where someone cannot get justice because it is clear their violent oppressor knows exactly what they are doing and is counting on their privilege.

The one time I could stop my father and did I asked him why he did bad things. He had raped me, he had beaten me, and for myself I could not stop it but for my step brother who had confided in me he wanted to be a girl and felt like one, I could. My father found out. We played dress up. This was two years later of course. The trans slurs, the hate, they came. Then the beatings started.

All it took to stop him was a single word from an eight year old girl. “No.”

I wish I had been able to say No when I was five. When I was three. I wish I had known I was allowed. I didn’t learn no from the institution I was in. I didn’t learn it from any adult. I learned I could say no from  another person in the institution. I asked her questions about racism, she was of mixed race descent. I asked her about that night. I asked her if I had to let him hurt people and she said, “You could tell him no like they always tell us.”

When I said no I was committed to death. I expected his rage to turn on me. Rage is not the right word. He wasn’t actually angry. The beatings always had a sexual component for him. He always would become sexual during them. He would always use his penis as a tool of domination and would always include rape in the beatings where it was the worst. When I dealt with a serial killer trying to kill me because I was just his type? The way he acted was very similar. There was sex involved in the desire to hurt others. That was where my father found his gratification.

I wonder if he would’ve turned into a serial killer had my friend and her father not escaped. I wonder too if he already was one. He’s dead so the world will never know. I stopped his beating with the word no because no one had said no to him when they were being hurt and it stunned him out of that gratified space enough that he couldn’t continue because he was afraid of what I might say or do. My step mother was screaming, my step brother was bleeding and unconsscious. I was a tiny scrap of humanity against what has always felt like a wall of impenetrable terror.

He tried to negotiate with me for permission to kill my step brother. He tried to barter with food, with pretty things, he tried threats. I just said one word. No. Every offer was No. My step mother after a few moments stopped screaming and I told her to run. I told her I would protect her. I wasn’t sure how. The word no had such potent effect, but that was just a small verbal weapon against someone I felt was the biggest man in the world. I know the reality is he was actually very short. At the age of eight however after the life time of abuse, he was a giant.

The moment the door closed behind my step mother and her son I thought the spell would break. He took orders. I ordered him to take me back to the institution. I kept wondering why he waited to hurt my step brother. I kept toying with it in my mind. He kept saying things in the car that he had only said to my mother. “I love you, you know that? I’ll give you anything you want just don’t stop visiting me.” The mistake he made was thinking he could fill me with hate for people just as he had. The only person I ever learned to hate was me.

I told the staff everything. They didn’t always hurt me, sometimes they believed me instead of accusing me of making things up. I think the bruises helped. The next day I tried to take it back claiming I just wanted attention. I was back inside two days early. No one ever comes back from a weekend pass early. My father did not go to jail for beating that boy, but my step mother never returned either.

I yearn to have used the power of No on his racism sooner. I yearn for it. I regret knowing what the look in his eyes means now. HIM taught me that. When he had me in the most pain HIM had the same look in his eyes. That sick pleasure at other’s suffering.

This was just a set of examples of hatred however. I  have talked about the No story before on this blog. I cannot link it but it’s there. My July Victory. The trigger that made him hurt this little person for being outside of the norm was food. I know it was brave. I just remember waiting to die.

Courting Unlucky Suicide

The blood haze in his eyes

I twist my face up to the sky

the black clouds over head

The lightening strike will come for me

This is the end of anatomy

I hail to thee death

I call out and wait.

Death spares me this moment.

The crime that had my father arrested was attacking a man in a wheelchair for parking in a handicapped parking space. For having a placard. He beat him. The man pressed charges. My father never spent time in jail but as this man was in a chair that means he had to fight harder. This arrest cost my father his job at the Christian Radio Station where he had a way to pour hate into the air waves. My father’s hate of disability was always crisp and clear. If you limped after a beating he beat you for looking weak. He pointed them out in church as people harboring demons. He did other things that I just cannot put into words yet in order to show the evils of difference.

Homosexuality is also a sin as he put it, but not for him. Sometimes when he would let strange men rape his children it was in the format of an orgy. I do not for a moment believe any of those men (there were more all male orgies than male female orgies) represent true homosexuals but instead I believe they were as twisted as he, and it was more a cult of pedofilia. I have to say again, not all men who are homosexuals are going to rape your children or their own. That’s a lie. A very cruel lie.

My mother has never done a thing to step away from privilege even though it constantly kept her in dire situations and cost her the respect of her children. I have not respected her for such a very long time. I am trying to now, yet there are so many things where she justified hate crimes because people were different. She threatened any sign of bonafide disability with mental institutions and fed into the bull that the mental health professionals use about it all being in your head. Can some things be? Absolutely. Are all things like chronic pain? No.

I still advocate for therapy, just not institutions.

I can’t say I have written this post as an ally for any group tonight but instead I want to show examples of extreme privilege. You see, my siblings believed my father. I think that my older brother has tried to escape the false privilege some but it always sucks him back in. My siblings used their privileges (thin blonde haired blue eyed female and male, able bodied, apparently normal in every way). They used them to try and fit in, they used them to abuse others. They used them in every way they could just short of the violent hate crimes of my father.

Their friends of color were subjected to every racist joke. My not getting why these jokes are funny had me declared by mother, sibling, father, step father and therapist as mentally ill and having no sense of humor.

I am haunted by my young friend. I have thought about her almost daily since that time. My impressions of her father are all so strikingly different from every other man I had met at that point except Mr. Chang. I remember for both of them a kindness that was foreign to me. I remember feeling safe. Some of their actions over lapped too. Shelter and food. The strongest impression I have was feeling safe. A lack of threat. I was truly myself for a very short time. that was the last time I was just me until well into adulthood.

I hadn’t realized that the two men who had made me feel safe by being GOOD men were both of color. It never struck me. This for me speaks volumes about racism. I wonder how much of my parent’s hatred of Other I have absorbed. I know that I am not immune to it. I know there is racism with in my own mind. I stumble on it and try to cut it out.

When we allow a single word of racism are we being as monsterous as my father? What if it is that moment when a child hears and knows that they are considered less than? Yes, I do think I am better than my parents in some ways, not all with my mother but totally and completely with the man who chose to be a mythical monster in the flesh. I think that is fairly clear. I think I am better than they are because I try to not hate people. It’s that simple.

I know there is always controversy over white men who commit this sort of crime being called monsters. For me the things in the shadows, the things under the bed and the boogey man all look an awful lot like my biological father. I do believe that white men have a greater chance of this behavior because they know they can get away with it. Our fetish for violence in the US feeds it too.

I should link it, but you can google. Serial killers fantasize about violence. Most have sexual gratification from the act of murder. That’d be my father right there. The acts of violence were less and less gratifying. Is it any wonder when he died a slow and painful death all of his children were full of joy and celebrated?

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