The picture above shows some rather nasty growth winding up this tree. We had to cut down several trees on our property with the same malady last fall -- it’s poison oak. It finds refuge in the highest branches and then dangles berries from those branches in their season. All of the poison oak plant is poisonous to people and the smoke from burning it can be deadly if inhaled.
Recognizing that we are all sinners who need to be saved by the grace of God, there are still sometimes members of a family tree who rise up and infect many generations. They are colorful and beautiful on the outside, but secretly poisonous, and very tough to eradicate.
Several years ago, our good friend and family doctor died suddenly of a heart attack. Eventually, his elder son followed in his father’s footsteps, graduated from medical school, and returned to set up a practice in the building his father had occupied. My husband and I were among his first patients. I’ll never forget my first office visit. I filled out an entrance exam that included the surprise question: “Were you sexually molested as a child?” That had never been asked of me, and since I was happily married, I thought it was an unimportant question, but it wasn’t to my doctor.
Background
The open discussion of sex and sexual perversion has become mainstream in today’s world, with its pride parades and women’s marches, folks dressed up as sex organs, popular movies about sado-masochism, and a #metoo movement that has chronicled important people and their sexual sins. The latest is Joe Biden, who was nominated as the Democrat Presidential candidate last week, but who stands accused by Tara Reade of sexual assault. We may not like it, but sex is headline news every day. Tara may even be asked to speak this week at the Republican Convention.
But this part of my story takes place in the summer of 1971, and though “free love” was happening among the hippies back then and Woodstock was two years earlier, most people didn’t really talk about it, and TV content was still censored. That summer, I knew some things about the anatomy of a woman, but not much about the anatomy of a man. And what I knew consisted of a single rough sketch by my mother that explained my periods and some early glimpses of my little brother without a diaper. Nothing was ever taught in church, either. So I lacked both words and discernment, as I finished up 9th grade.
Earlier in my writings, I held up my mother’s mother as a bad example, but there was another one. This is perhaps the hardest thing I’ve ever written. As I explain what happened in 1971, and how I felt about it, I will be mostly using the vocabulary of my former, younger self…
The Summer Vacation
At 14 years old, I was actually slender after the long weight loss program, with long, straight brown hair and dark brown glasses. We lived in Glendale, Arizona, in the same cramped trailer we’d inhabited since I was a baby, except that it had shrunk considerably since then. Dad had to build a room off the side of the trailer to give us more living space.
The summer of 1971, my dad’s older brother took special interest in my brother Junior, the bearer of the family name, and he invited this young kid to fly to New York City all by himself for a little vacation. But when Grandpa Ware heard about that, he was not to be outdone, and he invited Rennie and me to vacation at his big house in California! We were to fly into Long Beach one at a time, for two weeks each, with Rennie going first, and be treated to all that Southern California had to offer.
In many ways, this was a dream vacation for me. Anywhere I wanted to go, Grandpa would take me. Grandma Pearl stayed home, so I got Grandpa all to myself. There was Disneyland, of course – that was a given. And there was Knott’s Berry Farm, and at the time, I actually thought that was just a place to pick berries! How green I was!
There was the Santa Anita Raceway too, where Grandpa gave me some money for gambling, after I read the program and studied the horses and their jockeys. I felt very smart indeed to pick horses that won.
But some days, Grandpa needed to work, so off I went with him to have something to do. He loaded up his tools and did some fix-it work at some of his apartments, and I helped him or just watched. And there were times where we would go for a swim in Grandpa’s own private pool.
But there was something about this vacation that was troubling. It started at the airport in the car, right after I got off the plane. Grandpa wanted to kiss me, and when I turned my cheek so he could, he railed against my mom for not teaching our family how to kiss on the lips properly, like we should.
What could I do? I was alone, far from home, and Grandpa was someone I admired and trusted. He was so rich and so important. There was no one else to ask, so … I learned how to kiss on the lips. I thought that was all, but it wasn’t.
After a good night’s sleep, I awoke in the big house and, still in my nightgown, I made my way to the kitchen where Grandpa was washing dishes, to say good morning. I got a big, happy hug, that somehow turned into a time for Grandpa to stroke my newish breasts through my nightgown, holding them approvingly and feeling their weight in his hands, like a high schooler proud of his perfect 4-H pumpkin. This was also unexpected, but it felt like there was something going on like, “See what a beautiful woman my granddaughter has turned out to be!” Maybe it was a cultural thing? When Grandma Pearl was heard coming towards the kitchen, that encounter abruptly ended.
It was probably that day that Grandma suggested I go with Grandpa when he made his maintenance rounds. While we were out, and standing by one of the flower-draped walls, Grandpa decided it was time to test out my new kissing skills. But then, while we were kissing, he put his hand to my crotch and began to rub. I was really bothered by this so I pulled away from him. “What are you DOING?” I cried. He was visibly irritated at being interrupted, as if I were somehow deficient. Then, he went on to explain to me, like a kind and benevolent teacher, that he simply wanted to awaken me sexually, and he could tell by looking at me that it was working.
Mom had always told me that Grandma didn’t want to have sex with him, and I had always felt sorry for him. Maybe I could help! For my part, Rennie had had boyfriends since third grade, but I had been sadly overlooked, and I was pretty sure it was because I was fat. Until then, I’d never had anyone who wasn’t dumpy and funny-looking gaze at me with love in his eyes, like Grandpa did. In many ways, he became my “first love.”
Over the next two weeks, we had encounters in a variety of places -- a parked car, the pool, theme park rides, and more. He used his fingers, showed me his naked body, and got very close to raping me but stopped before he went “too far” because he “didn’t want to take my virginity from me.” He kissed me and touched me, and he told me I had grown into a beautiful woman. He told me he wished I’d been born in the same decade as he had, because he was in love with me, and the forty year age difference was the only thing holding us back from getting married. Of course, his wife shouldn’t know this … and in fact, his wife somehow always showed up just before things were out of control.
I leaned upon his hairy chest, heard these words of praise, and really believed what he said. What an honor to be fourteen years old and loved that much by someone so important and so rich and handsome as my grandfather! He didn’t want me to call him Grandpa either. The way he winced at that, I thought that the title must just make him feel old. I also wished I had been born earlier. We never discussed the words “adultery” or “incest.” I didn’t know those words, ... and they weren’t part of Grandpa’s curriculum.
On the way to the airport, he turned to me and said, “Now, you’ll probably have boyfriends when you get back home. All I ask is that you not get yourself pregnant.” And, “Don’t tell your mother about this. She wouldn’t understand.” Ah, then it was to be our secret.
“What about Rennie? Did you do these things with her?”
“No, of course not! She’s just a child, but you’re a woman. And I’m in love with you!”
By the time I left California, I had been set free of my inhibitions. I had learned some things, but I needed to do more research. The only thing I knew to do was to ask a few of my friends. There was Frieda, and there was Janice.
“Did you ever have a guy put his finger … ?” I asked. “Because my grandpa … “
“Margie, no I didn’t. That sounds really weird. Maybe you should ask the teacher.”
“No, that’s okay. I’m not supposed to tell.”
What Happened Later
The Bible specifically forbids sexual activity between certain family members in Leviticus 18, saying these were the abominations of the Egyptians and the Canaanites. But I had not read that passage as a 14-year-old and did not know it was there. Among the forbidden relationships is a man with his daughter’s daughter (v. 10). Bingo!
Later on, I discussed my past with my husband before we were married, and as a good Christian should, I forgave my grandfather, and thought I moved on. What I didn’t realize at the time were all the residual effects that would linger on for decades to come. The memories were still seared into my brain, and they popped up when I least expected them.
According to an article in Psychology Today, a child victim of sexual abuse is traumatized for life and suffers consequences:
The Incest Survivors Resource Network states that "the erotic use of a child, whether physically or emotionally, is sexual exploitation in the fullest meaning of the term, even if no bodily contact is ever made." It’s important to notice this clause about “no sexual contact.” Often, victims of sexual abuse will try to downplay their experience by saying that it “wasn’t that bad.” It’s vital to recognize that abuse comes in many shapes, colors, and sizes—and that all abuse is bad.
And here is a very good resource that explains many of the consequences of incest. They are many and varied, and reading the list, yes -- I recognized some of them in me.
Grandpa never paid for his crimes, and these encounters actually were crimes, as well as sins.
It is estimated that about 99.5% of child molesters get off scot-free under the law. There are many reasons why most victims never tell someone else, but a good many don’t because they are emotionally attached to their molester. A very large percentage of sexual predators are people the victim knows and trusts, very often close relatives.
When our oldest daughter was five, Grandpa invited our whole family to California and paid our way, and when we were enjoying a fine day at the beach, he found some time alone with me to personally ask my forgiveness. I told him I already had forgiven him, because that’s what we should do – forgive each other seventy times seven – and he was visibly relieved. Life went on, and we had a good relationship.
He was never exposed until, near the end of his life and afflicted with Alzheimer’s, he propositioned my sister. In a moment, all the truth of that summer came tumbling out and the rest of the family was finally aware of his sins – my mother, his wife, and my sister and brother. Again, I felt sorry for him, made excuses for him, and other than the personal embarrassment, there were no repercussions. It was nearly 50 years after the experience that I finally realized the full import of that summer, and I’m just now beginning to understand it and heal from it.
What to do now?
What do we do with these ugly circumstances in our lives? Here are some possibilities:
We can learn about what happens to adult survivors and despair, possibly actually imitating the person who abused us.
We can become bitter and hate the perpetrator and everyone else who reminds us of them.
We can blame everything that ever went wrong on the perpetrator and hang onto them as a scapegoat.
We can pursue vengeance.
We can become anxious, seek out psychiatric help, and pop psyche pills or self-medicate with drugs or alcohol.
Or, we can keep it hidden, as many have advised me, and let the secret go to the grave with us, because it might affect (scandalize) our family.
As you may have guessed by now, I don’t advise any of the above. Here’s why: My worst anguish and fear, nearly 50 years later, is that I may not have been the only one. Could I have saved another victim if I had disobeyed my grandpa’s instructions to stay mum? Possibly. I’ll probably never know. But with my 2020 hindsight, I would tell my younger self to not be chicken, but speak the truth, for others’ sakes, and let the chips fall where they may.
Forgiveness, with God’s help, is necessary for us to reconnect with the joy in our lives, however hard that part may be. I’ve heard that, because of the nature of this sin against us, sometimes it is necessary to “get a little mad.” But ultimately, the bitterness and hatred approach is a prison, not for the perpetrator, but for us.
“Dear Father in Heaven, who sees all our family secrets and loves both victim and molester, thank you for giving me the ability to tell my story in this way. I pray for those victims who may be reading this and don’t know what to do or where to go. They may be still in the situation, or they may have been silent for many years as was I. Help them to learn that they are not guilty and to have the courage to go ahead and tell. But also, help them by your grace, to forgive and not harbor hatred and bitterness in their heart. Free them from these bonds so that they can be truly free in the love of Jesus Christ.
“Lord, there may even be people who have been molesters who are reading this, and who have felt guilty for many years with their secret. God, help them confront this sin and eradicate it from their lives. For even this can be forgiven by Jesus, who died for every single one of our sins, to take away all of the guilt and shame and leave us clean and pure in His sight.
“In Jesus’ Name, Amen.”
