Perspective: The Portrayal of Artist Esther Joy White
A novel by
Marc E Hopkins
SMASHWORDS EDITION
PUBLISHED BY
Marc E Hopkins at Smashwords
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright November 10th 2011 Marc E Hopkins
All rights reserved
In the world of writing I spend so much time alone with my characters it is often too easy for me to forget that it is fiction.
Putting out a book is a process that cannot be accomplished without the support of the people that mean the world to me.
I dedicate Perspective to my children Garrett, Gabrielle and Gretchen.
To the girl of my dreams Heidi and her boys Blake and Max
The following are people who do what they do best so I do not have to learn how.
Michael Pokorny, John Crothers Cover Illustrator, Lisa Green Editor, Brian Harrison
To Dr. Michael Collins while he is no longer working in a classroom he always has time to teach a person that they have more work to do. Thank you for all you do in order for me to succeed in the world of writing.
Talent is not a reason not to work hard.
Perspective: The Portrayal of Artist Esther Joy White
Chapter One
I am Esther Joy White and this is my story. I was born in August of nineteen sixty-three, in Jackson, Michigan. Before I turned four, I had been in the care of the state more than I had been with my mother. When she could, my mother would take jobs as a waitress. The truth was, she spent more time selling pot and getting high than waiting tables. I learned later in life my mother had been in a fight over drugs with another woman. I never was told all of the details, but my mother was convicted of assault with the intent to do bodily harm. It got her three years. It was before she began serving her prison sentence that my grandmother took me in.
My grandparents lived on a farm about three quarters of a mile down the road from Glenwood and five miles from Decatur, Michigan. There is a train track that runs through Glenwood. Anytime day or night you could hear the train coming for miles. We lived close enough to the track that the floor vibrated slightly as the trains rushed through. From my bedroom window during the winter at night, I could see the train lights coming out of Dowagiac; I would sit and imagine who was on the train and where they were going. As the train got closer to the house it looked as though the light was exploding out from the night that surrounded it. Years later, the image of the train’s light cutting open the nights were still floating around in my head. I was on the road speaking anywhere I could about Aids awareness when I sketched a series of paintings of the interior of the trains with all the characters and people I imagined were riding by my house as a child. A year after that, I did a series of paintings where the focus of the painting was split or torn apart by a beacon of light. I used more memories from childhood and from my time in rehab to create this series. It was considered in the art world as me, ‘Glorifying the darker side of life while capturing the good and bad of who I was.’
The truth is, in all the train paintings there is a right side and the wrong side of the track. If you stand in front of the painting you cannot see it, but if you stand off the side to look at the painting you can see a shadow of a train behind the light. It is funny, sad, and very telling how long the memories of living near a train track can stay with a girl.
The house I grew up in sat a ways off the road but near the front of about twenty acres of woods that was nestled in the center of what the two attempted to farm. It by no means resembled the thoughts that go through one’s mind when they think of a century home. It was an unpainted, three story, and dilapidated home that hadn’t seen (even in good days) more than an ounce of maintenance. Just standing outside the house would be enough to give most children nightmares or assure them it was haunted with only the most terrifying and hideous of demons. I know; I heard the horror stories going back and forth to school on the bus as a child about the house I lived in. Looking back I wonder how much I was afraid the house was the stories I heard. Whether hearing the stories or not I will contest the house on its own merit was creepy.
Making the taunting worse were the children that knew my grandfather dug graves for the two townships. He called himself a sexton; it was for his amusement only. Grandpa took the job to make extra money after Park Estates, (a mobile home plant in Decatur) closed. He was only about three years from retirement when the plant closed. He never did quite get past how men his age were overlooked as candidates for other jobs for a younger option.
None of the reasons he was a gravedigger made it any easier riding with him in his truck, hopper hoe in tow, going to a cemetery, while he did what he had to. I spent most of my time sunk in my seat or watching the road to see if I knew anyone driving by that would torment me later.
During the winter, the house was cold and almost as windy inside as it was outside. The curtains, at one time, I’m sure were all white; now a mere piece of cloth barely more than paper thin and stained yellow from time and neglect. As the wind howled, the curtains would float out into the room like an un-hemmed skirt and then suddenly be sucked against the window. The only two warm spots I ever found were in front of the fireplace or in front of the woodstove.
I cannot recall a wall where the plaster was not embellished with thousand of spider web fractures. In some areas chunks of the plaster was missing to the lath, allowing you to see remnants of rodent tunnels and remains in the blown paper insulation.
We did have a cast iron bathtub and gravity toilet on the second floor of the house. I was leery of the tub when I was little as the floor around the tub was sunken from the weight. The bathroom sat directly above the kitchen. If I was downstairs when my grandmother was in the tub, I could see the stained ceiling in the kitchen bow if she moved suddenly.
I remember my first day of Kindergarten. I was nervous about the whole ordeal the night before. I don’t think I spoke a word the entire day. Grandmother was waiting by the mailbox as the bus pulled up to drop me off. I remember falling into her arms and thinking about what a relief it was to have Kindergarten over.
We were walking to the house when I expressed to Grandma that I was happy that it was over. She asked me what I was referring too.
“Kindergarten...”
She laughed and said, “Esther this has only been the first day.” and laughed a little more.
I didn’t know what to say. I look back and laugh now. I know I was embarrassed that I thought that Kindergarten was only a one-day adventure. Once I was over the shock of knowing I was going back I soon learned the first real thing about me. I loved school. At least the part where I had access to learn all I could about every topic. Compared to what I knew, I looked at the teachers like they were geniuses just waiting to help me become as smart as they were.
My grandmother was a short, grey haired, heavyset, hardworking, religious woman who as she put it, grew up so poor they didn’t have a word for wealthy. Poverty it seems followed my grandmother her entire life at least monetarily. She expressed for as hard as her life was she had so many things in her life that made her feel rich, she didn’t need money. She married a Michigan dirt farmer and left Kentucky behind when she was sixteen. They had one child, my mother. A ‘wild hair’ was the way my grandfather described her; ‘Revolting about everything and raising Cain since she was in diapers.’
I know God is what gave grandma the strength to endure the life she had and still be as positive as she could. We went to church every Saturday, good weather or bad, no excuses. She taught me from day one that the only shame a person should feel is if they did not live in the light of Christ. A lesson that I took with me; although I am sure did not fully come to understand, until much later in life.
I don’t remember much about living in Jackson. Periodically I will see an image flash in my mind, like a snapshot of a place, or a room. The images are from the viewpoint of a child, so I have always assumed it was from my time there. As the years have gone by, they are few and far between. I do remember a few things about my mother from what little time I was with her. Mostly that she yelled a lot. The images I have of her in my mind most likely came from photos of my mother that my grandmother kept around the house; so what I really do remember and what I think I’ve tried to convince myself I remember may be entirely different. I know grandma explained to me very early on that after my mom had been released from prison she had decided to stay in Jackson. I was too young to understand why; I know I was hurt that she didn’t come and get me or at the very least, see me. I know I always felt like she didn’t want me and that is why she never came back. I can safely say I never did get over that feeling.
I was too young to realize it at the time, but I’m certain I remember my mother’s last call to my grandmother.
The phone rang; it was well after midnight. It woke both Grandma and me. She answered the phone and shoed me back to bed all in the same second. I walked back up and sat on the top of the stairs, not saying a word; I just listened. I could only make out some of the conversation.
She was telling the person on the phone to stay calm and it would be all right. My grandmother’s face looked as if she was going to cry. I heard my grandmother say it’s all right and she would stay on the phone until it’s over.
I remember thinking, “What!” What’s over? I could not go to sleep now. I tried as hard as I could to listen and harder to see if I could tell whom she was talking to. I fell asleep before it was over.
The next morning grandma told me I wasn’t going to school. It wasn’t until we had eaten that my grandmother told me why.
It was more of a matter of fact that she explained it. She said my mother had been stabbed and had called and talked to my grandmother until she passed. I don’t know if she wanted to talk to me or not. My grandmother didn’t say and I never asked. Then she told me to go and get my chores done and that was that.
I know I cried while feeding the chickens that morning. A little because I had lost my mother, the truth is I didn’t know who she was. More so I cried because I hoped that my mom would come back and we could be a family. I was mourning, wanting a normal family more than anything. I loved my grandparents. But I also knew what other children had. They had everything. I had what seemed like nothing. I wanted things. I wanted new dresses and new shoes. I wanted a mom.
We drove to Jackson that day. They needed to identify the body and make arrangements. We didn’t talk much on the ride up. My grandfather said to my grandmother on the ride home it had looked more like she had been gutted. My grandmother never replied.
The funeral was several days later. Outside of a few family members, there weren’t many people I recognized. The truth is there weren’t many people to recognize. I didn’t know it, but my father was in attendance. I would not know that for another year.
My father showed up once about a year and a half after my mothers’ funeral. It was in the middle of July and I was walking down the gravel road maybe a half-mile from the house. Each side of the road had ditches that allowed water to run off from the fields. During the summer, the weeds grew higher than the field. The reason I loved walking the road were the butterflies. They were attracted to the flowers that the weeds produced. The butterflies came in droves, thousands of them every color and kind a girl could imagine. Once in a while I would sneak sugar and put it in my hand. The butterflies would land all over me to get a chance to have some. I heard a rumbling sound in the distance. It slowed as it neared the corner and I watched as a small trail of dust blew up and across the field as a motorcycle made its way towards me.
He stopped the bike about ten feet in front of me and shut it off. The man on the bike asked, “Is Elli home?”
Elli was my grandmother. I nodded my head.
“Want to ride up to the house?”
I looked up and down the road; then I looked at the bike. It was the shiniest thing I had ever seen. It was a Harley chopper, black, red, and chrome. The gas tank had an intricate design of Chinese dragons on both sides. Inside the painted dragons were smaller pictures of skulls. While I thought the skulls were disgusting and the dragons scared me; I was entranced with the designs and details of every line and curve of the bike. The dragons had colors behind the colors that came through and changed as I moved around it which in turn highlighted the outline of the skulls. I just stood and stared at the bike.
“Little lady, do you want a ride or not?”
I looked up and at him seriously for the first time. He had sunglasses on and his arms and face were a dark tan. He had tattoos even on his neck and hands. His jeans were both faded and ripped from wear. He had a ponytail that came out the back half of his helmet. I remember the tee shirt he had on had a large tongue on the front of it. I couldn’t imagine why he would want to see my grandmother.
He told me to climb onto the bitch seat. His language shocked me; my grandparents did not tolerate profanity. Nonetheless I could not resist his offer. I climbed on; he started the bike and revved the engine a couple times before popping it into gear. The rumbling shook my whole body. He told me to wrap my arms around his waist and hold on. The heat from the black leather vest burned into my chest, melting me into his back; the front of my body began to sweat. The vibration was exhilarating. It was the first time I felt that kind of tingle in my body. I felt my face flush as my body absorbed the heat from his body. My entire body felt like little charges of electric was running through it. As he took off, I was nervous and thrilled. He crept the rest of the way to my grandmothers, but it was exciting. I watched the birds and butterflies stir from their hiding places as the bike vibrated past.
Truthfully I am not sure to this day whether I fell in love with the bike or the man on the bike, or if I just loved the idea that something this colorful had broken up the monotony of solitude and boredom that comes with living in the middle of nowhere.
Two things happened that day. One, it was the first day I looked at a man as someone you could love in a way I had not felt before. Secondly, I definitely knew I loved art. How much seeing the bike and his tattoos changed the way I looked at the world, can never be measured accurately.
We rode up the drive as slowly as we had the road. The trees shaded the drive and I could feel the coolness of the shade on my skin. We got to the house and he turned off the bike. My grandfather was on the porch. He stood up from his chair and said, “”Esther go get your grandmother.”
I hopped off the bike and flew into the house. I found grandma in her room sewing something and told her grandpa wanted her on the porch and that she had to come and see who was here.
We walked outside together. Grandpa was by the bike talking to the man. They both stopped talking when I burst through the door. Grandma stayed on the porch; then finally asked, “What are you doing here?”
Before he could answer my grandfather turned and said, “He came to visit. There ain’t no law against that.”
Her reply was less cordial than her first question. Grandfather began to explain my grandmother to the man and she stopped him. “Don’t you go explaining me to him! If I wanted him to know something, I’d tell him myself!” With that grandma went back in the house.
I stayed by the bike while grandpa and the man went up on the porch. They sat and talked. I went to the house after awhile and got out some paper and colored pencils I had gotten for Christmas the year before.
The first thing I drew was a side view of the gas tank. I had no idea how to draw, it just started happening. I would look at it and let my hand work the pencil on the paper. I tried to capture the multiple depths of color and reflections in the sheen. After I filled in the colors, I drew with a red pencil the body of the dragon. I drew several pictures of the bike while sitting in the yard that day.
Grandma came out on the porch about five and asked me to help with getting dinner on the table. She ignored both men completely.
When the table was set and dinner was ready, grandma told me to get the men off the porch and to go find my uncle. The uncle she referred to was her younger brother who had moved back up here about a month before my dad came. He lived in a shell of a trailer behind the out buildings on the property. I hated him. I hated the way he looked at me. I hated going to look for him and I hated when I had to go out to his trailer. He was a nasty human being who lived in squalor. He had no job, no friends; no one even knew he was here. He was supposed to live here to help my grandparents run the farm. The only work I ever saw him do was build a whiskey still in the bedroom of the trailer.
I went outside to get the men and find my uncle. He was already on the porch. Filthy, I could smell him before I went out the door. I told them dinner was ready. They all came in to eat. We had fried potatoes, boiled ham, a salad from garden vegetables, and sweet corn.
Before we ate my grandmother did ask me to lead us in prayer. After that the men mostly made small talk. Towards the end of dinner my grandmother asked the man point blank what he had come here for.
His reply was simple, “To see my girl.”
She was quiet. Everyone at the table looked at me to see my reaction. There was no reason to have a reaction. I had not made the connection that he was my father.
“That’s a fine how do ya’ do. Ain’t been around since the funeral and now you’re here for a visit.” My grandmother was not shy about expressing herself, but she didn’t reply her rebuttal directly at him it was more at me.
“He has a right to see her.” My grandfather calmly said.
Ignoring my grandfather she asked, “How long you think you’re going to stay here?”
“I’m not staying here; I got a room at the motel out on M-51.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
“This trip, a few days. I’m not here looking for trouble.”
My grandmother grunted “Humph” under her breath, then snapped back with, “Seems to me you’ve had plenty enough of that already.”
“Elli! Enough! It’s not his fault. It has never been his fault. He’s been kind enough to let you blame him for a lot over the years, but her dying had nothing to do with him.” My grandfather paused, “You need to start blaming the right people or stop blaming anyone.” My grandfather stared at my uncle while he spoke, and then finally back at my grandmother.
Grandma didn’t serve dessert that night. She got up red in the face and went to her room. My uncle left as soon as my grandmother did. My dad and grandfather and I cleaned up from dinner. We went outside and did chores. I showed my dad the chickens, rabbits, and the garden. I remember looking around once and awhile to see where grandma was. I couldn’t understand at the time why she didn’t like my father. My dad and I walked down the gravel road. We walked slowly talking about nothing as I showed him the butterflies hiding in the weeds. We watched the sunset as we made our way up the driveway.
He left after dark to spend the night in the motel. I wanted him to either stay here or take me with him, but neither happened. I didn’t make a big deal about it.
After he left, I went into the bathroom; took a bath, and went to my room. It was beginning to sink in that I had a father. There was too much buzzing around in my head to try and to sleep.
My father was not really discussed before this night, I had asked sometime while I was in kindergarten where my dad was but I didn’t get an answer that explained anything. Truthfully, my grandfather did not know where he was so his answer of, “I’m not sure where he is,” was the best he could offer.
I started thinking about my father and began feeling excited like I had on the bike. I felt bubbly almost overly happy about someone I barley knew existed. Nonetheless, I was overwhelmingly excited. Of course I had no idea exactly why I was feeling like this. I got out of bed and stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself. I wanted to see what I looked like when I had this feeling. I was red in the face and smiling for reasons I could not figure out and my eyes looked to be more blue than I ever remember them being before now. I held my hair up over my head then let it drop again; I turned and looked at myself from the side. I wasn’t more than a pale boney girl with long brown hair but I felt beautiful.
Laying in bed my thoughts wandered between how good the bike made me feel as it shook my body and how I felt thinking about my dad. If I had one thought, I must have had a thousand different daydreams run through my head that night about why my dad was here and what was going to happen before I drifted off to sleep.
My dad came back early the next morning and spoke with my grandparents for a while. Grandpa called me in the house and asked if I wanted to go with my dad for the day. I was flying up the stairs to get ready before he was done asking the question, begging my Grandma to help me get my hair braided and find something that would be all right to wear. We picked out a flower printed white short jumpsuit.
I didn’t ask where we were going. I didn’t care. Anything would be more exciting than my typical day. I was so excited! I was smiling and crying at the same time as I gave my grandparents hugs goodbye.
We got on the motorcycle; I put my arms around him and hugged him the entire time. Every time he throttled or shifted, my body experienced another thrill. It was amazing.
We rode for what seemed like all morning before we ended up in St. Joe. We spent hours running in and out of Lake Michigan and walking on the beach. While we were walking back to the bike he asked me about my school and friends. I lied and told him school was fine but for years it really wasn’t. For the longest time I dreaded going to school, I was shy and poor. Neither are qualities that a child can possess without an onslaught of both verbal and physical torture from other children.
My grandmother got most of our clothes from Goodwill or from donations made to the church. It seemed at the time that it didn’t matter what I wore; it became target of a joke or comment. It wasn’t so much in school that the picking was brutal but the bus ride to and from that it was over bearing. It was the children on the bus that knew where I lived. Every morning and afternoon when I got on the bus I endured the cruelties of other children that tormented me about living in what they had dubbed ‘the Haunted Heap’
Over time the kids made up stories that grew into a kind of local legend. At least among them selves, that added to the horror that in fact was just a rundown home. It worked well enough that even children that lived close enough to walk or ride a bike down my dirt road didn’t dare.
I would sit on the bus staring out the window trying to ignore the verbal abuse. It had been years since I had cried on the bus. By the time I was in fourth grade I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. I had grown an emotional skin tough enough to not allow the other kids to break my will. Still, it was easier to ignore if I didn’t look at anyone. I tried to get the seat directly behind the bus driver, that usually helped, but that was never a guarantee. The worst days were those when the bus was being driven by a substitute. I would be physically ill before the day was out it was so bad. I knew I would be fair game for every type of abuse they could think of, hair pulling, spitting, and tearing my shirt or coat. The torment became worse when I began developing physically and some of the boys would grab my breasts, butt or at my crotch.
Poverty does not equate to sluttish. An idea I fear most of the male population no matter what age will never understand. What poverty allows is the poor to be used because they feel they have no choice, no power and no right to say no.
I did learn from this experience in my life no matter how dreadful it was for me at the time. From kindergarten on I threw myself into my studies. Long before I or anyone else knew I had any ability as an artist, my studies gave me something to think about besides being picked on and as I grew older I knew it was the only thing that was going to help me get out of Decatur.
I didn’t tell my dad any of this. I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t loveable. I barely knew I had a father and at this point I didn’t even know his middle name. I wanted him to want me. As a child I truly believed that is how you think. If you are different or picked on, there has to be something wrong with you. It isn’t until you are an adult that you realize that the problem isn’t you and by then the damage is done.
After we were done at the beach we went to downtown South Haven. The first thing we did was have a late lunch. I remember my dad asking if I wanted to eat at this fancy little Bistro. I told him we couldn’t go in because he was not dressed properly. His response was simply “Bull Shit!”
He walked in like he owned the joint. He asked the hostess for a table for two because we were celebrating; he turned and winked at me. I smiled back at him and then he asked her if she wanted to join us. She laughed and told the waitress we were celebrating. The waitress treated us very well. While we were eating my dad did a lot of talking. He told me a lot about himself. That he had trouble with both the law and drugs in the past, but that those kinds of problems were all behind him. He said he was currently working as a welder in Gary, Indiana, and he was working on opening his own shop in the next year.
I was listening to him while he talked but I was as interested in the restaurant as I was in what he was talking about. I could not help myself I had never been to a place like this before. It was beautiful; every aspect of it. My water had a wedge of lemon in it. They brought me a Pepsi in what felt like a crystal glass. The tablecloth was red linen; they had a napkin folded that looked like a sail sitting on a plate that they took away when they brought the food. Everything about the place was bright, colorful and full of beauty. There were paintings on the walls: lake scenes, boats, and flowers. From where we sat, I could see Lake Michigan, the carousel and the end of the pier, which we had walked on earlier.
My dad interrupted my gawking by asking me if I liked to paint. I wasn’t sure. It seems so foolish now, but the first thing that came into my mind was helping grandpa slap and roll paint on the last chicken coop he built.
I said, “Sure.”
He told me, as the waitress brought my club sandwich and fries, we had another stop to make before we headed to the house.
After we ate we walked to an art shop. It is one of the best memories I have from my childhood. As we went in the front door the woman behind the counter, in what sounded like a Russian accent, said immediately that children are not allowed in the store.
We stopped just inside the front door. My father replied, “How is she supposed to get the supplies she needs if she cannot come in.”
The woman scoffed, “Come in. But she cannot touch anything.”
We looked around for a long time at books, magazines, brushes, and paint. My dad spoke to the lady about what I would need to become an artist. I remember her reply as if she was standing here now:
“To be an artist, she must have talent.”
My dad smiled, looked at me and smiled, then said, “She’s got all kinds of talent, what she needs now is the stuff to show it off.”
The women smiled and huffed slightly at the same time. She did spend a lot of time showing me brushes, canvases, and paint. Then picked out several books on a variety of topics; none of which I knew anything about.
I saw a set of colored pencils and oil pastels that made my box of 48 Crayola look colorless. I saw myself drawing with these before I ever touched them. They were magnificent. The woman opened the box and took out a yellow one. She put it in my hand and said, “With this, you should be able to make me believe you have the sun coming out of what you draw.”
I looked at the stick of yellow as if it were gold. I handed it back to her and told her, “I will.”
Then she told my dad that the stick pastels may be the way to go because of my age as they would be easier to take care of rather than paint and brushes, and allow me to practice what I learn from the books. She talked about learning to control a brush and paint by starting with watercolors. She got out a set and showed my father and I the difference between the three brushes that were in the set and how to use the paint correctly. By the time we left, I had everything I needed and I even think the woman in the store began to like me; all be it I am not sure of that.
We got back to the farm just before dusk. I was sunburned and tired but could not wait to show my grandmother what my dad got me. She was not as happy about it as I was. She went on for a few minutes about wasting money and that I needed shoes and clothes before school started, not crayons. I was still excited.
The next day my father came back and we spent the day on the farm. After lunch he and my grandfather took me out to the barn. They built me two easels out of scrap wood. The first one they built was for the house to use after I was old enough to paint with brushes on canvas. The second one was more of a homemade backpack with a wooden kickstand of sorts. They kept having me pick it up to see if it would fit and if I could carry it. It consisted of a medium sized board, canvas straps, and a pouch to put supplies in. They attached two prop sticks at the top so I could stand it up.
I smile when I think about it, as I am sure I looked ridiculous toting that thing around, but I did however haul the thing everywhere I went. That homemade backpack has been with me since. As I sit here now and write about it; it sits in the corner of my sitting room a reminder of how it all began. I think back about how much easier it would have been to carry what I needed in a paper bag or bucket, but it was my first art studio.
We had dinner and sat on the porch for a while. My dad finally said he had to go. It was hard for me to watch him drive off at night. I asked him if I could go with him as we walked to the bike. He kind of laughed and told me maybe someday but it wasn’t going to be that night. He hugged me and kissed me; he held me for a long time, telling me he loved me. I didn’t want him to see me cry but I did anyway. I didn’t want him to go. I told him I loved him back. He put on his helmet, kicked started the bike and was gone.
I got up the next day it was Friday. I was anticipating the moment my father was going to pull in the driveway. I listened all morning for the bike rumbling in the distance, I never heard it. I finished my chores and everything else I was suppose to do, then I walked the gravel road and driveway waiting for him. I did the same thing in the afternoon and after dinner. He never showed up.
At the end of the day I was in my room on my bed sitting Indian style looking out the window. Assuming I had done well hiding how much I was hurting inside. There was still a part of me that had not given up on the idea my dad was coming back. I spent the day making up conversations in my head as to what his excuse was going to be as to why he had not gotten here sooner. The stories changed as the day wore on, each time a bigger problem arose that ultimately held him up.
The sun had barely set, when my grandmother came in to check on me. I had been crying not hard but nonetheless I had been. Somewhere inside me I knew he had left.
My grandmother came in my room and looked at me. As I turned from the window and looked at her I burst into tears. My heart was broke in a way I don’t think she or anyone else could ever fully understand. He had only been here five days and I was hurt on so many levels I couldn’t begin to sort out or explain any of them. My grandmother held me as I cried. She didn’t lecture me or pass judgment on him. She just held me until I went to sleep.
In my heart I know that my father leaving and not hearing from him the remainder of my childhood only cemented my belief that I was a child that was not wanted. It took a long time to accept that this wasn’t true. It also caused me to feel guilty when this idea crept into my life because I know my grandmother did everything she could to raise me and raise me right, and eventually, gave her soul to the devil in order to save mine.
Chapter Two
Saturday and Wednesday were the two days of the week we went to church. My grandmother was raised in a southern Baptist church, but before my mother had been born had became an Adventist. The Sabbath was the Lords day; we would get up early and get what work we absolutely had to, done then spend the day by going to Sabbath school then church and paying respect to the Lord. I have nothing but the fondest memories of our time together as a family. We went to two churches. Three weeks out of the month we attended the Seventh Day Adventist church in Glenwood and once a month we drove to Berrien Springs and attended church on the campus of Andrew University.
Every Saturday seemed to be an all day affair. Different ministers and speakers from all over the world would come and speak about their life experiences. Some spoke of only positive experiences, and while I appreciated their sermon; the ones that truly touched me and made me realize how important God has to be in one’s life is the speakers that talked about how their life was before they had found God; or how bad their lives had gotten when they turned their back on or denied Jesus as their Savior.
After church there was usually a potluck luncheon. The food was a collection of all the different nationalities that attended the service. It was an array of dishes from dozens of cultures. I will say I found it funny that they had a separate table to place meat dishes on, as a lot of the Adventist, do not eat meat. I always tried to take a small dab from each dish that looked new or interesting so I could try as many new things before I got full.
One of the funniest things was watching my grandmother attempt to be far more of a vegetarian than she actually was. During the summer and fall she always brought a dish or platter of food made directly from the garden and talked about how she loved vegetables, but at home everything seemed to be battered, fried, topped with butter, or served as a side for the meat of the day.
On occasion, my grandfather would come with us to church and while we were eating he would take a poke at Grandma and say out loud things like, “Elli you should try cooking like this at home.” Or “Elli you should bring a batch of fried catfish over here for these folks to try.” It would always cause her to react.
On almost every Wednesday we went to church in Glenwood. It was generally a Bible study; occasionally there would be a guest author, missionary, or minister, which spoke or directed a Bible study series. I loved to hear their stories about the places they had been and how God had come into their life. I would imagine that I was also there with them trying to embellish the story they were telling with pictures I would make up in my head. After hearing about all these places I would go home and draw a picture of something the speaker had discussed.
I found myself drawing and painting more throughout all of third grade. I was constantly sketching and when I was doing other things; my mind would race to an idea or thought as to how I could draw that. Without understanding what a series in art actually was, I would draw several pictures of the same thing from a different point of view, or with different light. I got the idea to expand on the same scene when I was drawing a picture of a rusty old windmill that was sitting next to a silo in a field. As I sat and looked at the field, I thought about how minuet the windmill was compared to the entire view; but also about how hard the windmill had worked for all the years it had stood next to the silo.
Thinking that way I decided to draw the same picture but with the windmill in the brightest light and everything in the surrounding less profound. By my own admission my art at the time was not close to being a masterpiece, but everything I did expanded my understanding and also my love and passion for art.
The next three years of my life as I remember them, specifically defined who I became as an adult. Both good and bad, not only who I was as a person, but also because of the people around me it was this time that determined what I became.
Fourth grade was the first year that we actually had an art class. I still remember how excited I was when our homeroom teacher told us. Looking around the room, I was in the minority. Tuesday afternoon instantly became the highlight of my school week.
My art teacher’s name was Mrs. Fotter; she knew almost everything about every medium anyone had ever attempted. As a child you don’t know how much time and work a person puts into getting an education. Teaching is no exception. Mrs. Fotter’s passion for art may have only been surpassed by her love for teaching.
I clung to every word she spoke. I would go home and practice what we’d do in class. I would study and try everything she talked about that I did not understand.
Never being one to talk out loud in class. It was my fear of ridicule that always seemed to outweigh anything I wanted to say. In art class however it was like I was home. To the best of my recollection it was close to Halloween before I spoke for the sake of speaking. We were working on making papier-mâché masks. I had taken the time to sand down the front of my mask before painting it. I had also drawn out on a paper what I wanted to paint. I had a small amount of the top of the mask as scenery and when looking at the mask on the left side was a butterfly perched on the cheek of it. On the right side of the mask I planned on painting a scarred clown face. I used two pieces of broken blue glass to set in the eyes for depth and realistic color, or so I thought. I was painting the lip area with little gold stars when I heard,
“Look at what Esther’s doing.”
I froze. My mind was conditioned to panic when I heard my name. Before I heard the comment, I accepted that it was going to be a taunt of some sort.
The next thing I heard was, “It’s beautiful.”
I had to inhale in order to exhale. I looked up with a smile on my face and mumbled the words, “Thank you.”
Several more children were now looking at my mask. Mrs. Fotter came over and asked if she could hold the mask up. I simply nodded my head. She spoke for several minutes about what I had done to my mask to make it different and stand out. She discussed how I made the face natural and contoured by adding paper where the cheeks and nose were. How I had taken the time to form the eye sockets so they looked natural.
I felt a sense of pride in my work as she spoke about how I took the time to plan out what I was going to paint. She commented on the detail and contrast of design the two sides of the face had; and while why they were completely different I had chosen colors that allowed the two sides to compliment each other.
Outside of my grandparents and my father once, this was really the first time anyone had taken notice of my artwork. Kids that had never said a nice thing to me liked what I had created. I will point out that while neither of my grandparents truly understood or I guess a better explanation would be that they were not educated in what the art world was and the potential that it held.
At the end of class Mrs. Fotter spoke with me for a couple of minutes and wanted to know (if any) what other work I had done. I told her yes. She said she would love to see it if I didn’t mind. I was elated; I believe I smiled until the next day. I could not wait until I got home so I could pick out what I was going to bring to show her.
I think all people, no matter what their age; get nervous about exposing their passion to anyone. So much of whom a person is; is poured into what they have created that it makes the art a personal reflection of the people who create it.
To this day I still get the jitters when my work goes on display. Why I look at it as though my work has to live up to someone else’s standards is beyond me. Still, when it surpasses their expectations, it is a feeling of accomplishment that nothing else compares to.
The following week I took my drawings of my dad’s bike and several pictures I had done of a full moon with the emphasis on the sky around the moon. She liked what I had done and asked me what inspired me to draw the night scenes not using the moon as the focus point of the picture. I was not sure what she was asking me.
When I showed her the drawings of the windmill and how I drew it several ways giving the things around the windmill more and less importance, she got out a book and we started going through it. It was more advanced than anything I could read and understand at the time. It was part art appreciation and part art history but there was one picture that looked incredible. A black and white photo taken in the eighteen hundreds, it was a snapshot from the bottom of a tree up to the top. I couldn’t help but think this looked so different from anything I had seen before. This photo would have a bigger impact on me than either of us could have possibly known. I could not have been happier to have a person in my life that both saw my potential and appreciated my work.
Yet, as soon as I wasn’t in school, other things were on my mind. My house was no longer my safe haven from the rest of the world. Life at home had taken a perverted and vile turn.
About two weeks before school begun, my uncle found me in the garden and told me he needed my help. It was a different time, a different era. We were not taught to be leery of strangers let alone question or defy the request or command of an adult we knew.
Following him back to his trailer my only thinking was, that whatever he wanted me for, it better not to take too long. Once we went into the trailer he closed the door. It was hot. He started talking about how I was always parading around teasing him getting him excited then never doing anything about it. I had no idea what he was talking about or that I was even possibly in harms way.
After several more minutes of rambling, he told me to get undressed, that he wanted to see me with my clothes off.
I know I was embarrassed and scared; being undressed in front of someone other than for a bath when my grandmother was in the room was an idea I had never thought about. I stood there for a minute maybe more and did nothing.
He sat on the couch and finally said “Hurry up.”
I didn’t know what to do. I was a child; I could not imagine why he wanted to see me with my clothes off. I know it sounds so naïve but sex was not something that had ever been discussed.
I guess in some bizarre way I almost felt flattered that anyone would want to look at me. I remember I had a dress on that buttoned up the front. I began to undo the buttons until it was open. I know I felt uncomfortable with him looking at me knowing he could see my underwear. He was staring at my crotch. I looked out the window for the longest time then stared at a hole in the wall standing there with my dress open, not knowing what to do.
Finally he said in a raspy voice, “Take the dress off sweetie.”
I did, standing in my underwear and tennis shoes. I put my arm over my chest. I’m not sure why. I had nothing to cover up. I looked at him staring at me. He had a weird look on his face.
The next thing I heard was, “Take off your panties.”
I didn’t move or look in his direction before he spoke again, “If you don’t want to take them all the way off, just pull them down so I can see.”
I did it without much hesitation. The shame and embarrassment were almost overbearing. I stood there with my underwear down just below my private area. It didn’t seem to take very long; whatever it was that happened. He made a grunting sound then told me to get dressed. Outside of the embarrassment it really at the time seemed like a big waste of time.
After I got dressed he told me to leave, as I went out the door I heard, “You better not tell anyone what you just did.”
The next day my grandparents went somewhere. As soon as they were gone, he came and got me. I didn’t want to go this time. I had chores to do before my grandparents got back and I wanted to draw.
I told him I was busy. He responded with, if I didn’t go he would tell my grandmother that I showed him my privates and was teasing him. I knew no better. Not wanting my grandmother to know what I had done, I went to the trailer.
This time it wasn’t over in a minute. This time he had me get completely undressed except for my shoes and then had me walk around and clean up the living room. He was always staring; looking at my most private area. I had barely gotten a garbage bag full of trash picked up before I saw him grab his crotch and a few seconds later he grunted. He sat down on the couch and after a few minutes told me to get dressed and leave.
This type of thing continued to happen for the next month, maybe longer. He would come and get me or tell my grandfather he needed my help; then as soon as I got in the trailer, he would have me undress, then tell me what to do, and he would stare at me. One day he had me working naked on the floor. He told me he had something to show me. I turned around and looked up at him. He was holding his erection in his hand. I could not help but look at it. It was inches from my face. He was stroking it, telling me that it was my fault it was like this and I was the one that made it this way. I was caught in the moment watching him.
I will not apologize or try and justify why I didn’t do things differently when I was with him. Sexual predators will pick the weakest link and prey on them to give them what they need most; which is affection and attention. I was no different in wanting that, and he was no different than any other predator.
He had me believing in no time I was special as long as I did what he wanted me to. He also had me scared to death that if anyone found out what he was having me do I would be even more of an outcast and that (and this was the thing that hit me the hardest) my grandmother would not love me.
As sick as it sounds when I saw his erection I was flattered by it. As horrible as some may think this sounds; it was physical evidence that he liked me. This may be the hardest part to explain, but I know his ejaculating turned me on.
It was over shortly after I started watching. After that I knew why he grunted. Seeing it happen changed the way I looked at myself. I went to bed that night thinking so many things. I somehow had a power that I did not know I had. I certainly didn’t know how to use it or where it came from.
My mind had captured the image of his release like a movie that just kept playing in my head. The more I thought about it, the more things began happening to my body. I didn’t know it at the time, but these feelings (while all be it may have stemmed from something that was inappropriate) were a natural sexual response.
It was the first time I attempted any type of sexual exploration. I was feeling myself, more so to try and figure out what was happening down there when I hit ‘the spot’. My body jolted, filled with little electrical charges from head to toe. I touched it again only this time longer. It didn’t take long to learn what I needed to do. It was spectacular. All I could do was smile.
Afterwards, I wondered if other girls knew their body could feel this good when they touched themselves, and did all boys have things that did what my uncle’s did?