Where were the adults?
Chapter 2
When I started school, kids asked me innocent and fair questions - questions I had never considered on my own.
“Why don’t you have a mom and dad?”
Hmmmm...I didn’t know the answer to that to tell you the truth. So, I asked.
This was the moment in my life where I learned a new skill - how to “read the room”.
The other lesson I learned concurrently was this: silence is a massively effective communication tool that quite accurately imparts what people won’t or can’t say out loud. It’s weird, because it wasn’t the kids asking the question that made me feel uncomfortable. It was the response of the adults. It was then when I knew something was awry. I was told (truthfully) that my parents had me when they were very young and could not take care of me so Granny and Grandad took care of me. I was cool with that. Seemed reasonable. However, the bitter chill in the room when I asked that question didn’t jive with the simplicity of that answer. So I kept my little ears open and over time bits of conversation and random events alerted me to the fact that it was indeed, not that simple. I learned that it was actually a really bad thing. I learned that I was a really bad thing.
This was the moment in my life where I learned a new skill - how to “read the room”.
The other lesson I learned concurrently was this: silence is a massively effective communication tool that quite accurately imparts what people won’t or can’t say out loud. It’s weird, because it wasn’t the kids asking the question that made me feel uncomfortable. It was the response of the adults. It was then when I knew something was awry. I was told (truthfully) that my parents had me when they were very young and could not take care of me so Granny and Grandad took care of me. I was cool with that. Seemed reasonable. However, the bitter chill in the room when I asked that question didn’t jive with the simplicity of that answer. So I kept my little ears open and over time bits of conversation and random events alerted me to the fact that it was indeed, not that simple. I learned that it was actually a really bad thing. I learned that I was a really bad thing.
I also learned you do not call the grandfather who is raising you, “Dad”. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I didn’t see the harm in it. Every father’s day, at school or Sunday school, we would make paper ties or some other manly craft to take home to dads. Mine were always given to my grandfather, so it seemed logical to assume calling him “Dad” wouldn’t be a big deal. I was wrong. I read the room at this moment too. As the oxygen was sucked from the room, I heard the silence roar its disapproval and took note. Something didn’t fit. Something was amiss. Didn’t belong. And it seemed to be me. That’s a large concept for a child to get a grip on. Thus the core belief about myself grew out of all that cognitive dissonance (there’s some Phych 101 lingo for ya').
This was most vividly illustrated the first time I met my mother as a younger child. I learned that I did, in fact, have a mother. There she was, right in front of me. I also had a step-dad. A what? (Listen people, I’m old - no one had a step-dad in my day). And I had a brother. No, a half-brother. Huh? Half? And two half-sisters. They lived as a family in Calgary. Carolyn, my mother, was unlike Margaret or my other friend’s moms. She was...scary. Not like ugly or monster scary, just...intangible scary. She was a force. Big. Loud. Stern. She visited us a couple times in Courtenay and we visited with her and my half-siblings once in Calgary as well. My step-dad, Rod, seemed OK. He was a musician and since I played piano we like, you know - jammed. He gave me the guitar I learned to play when I was a teenager and also gave me a personally signed copy of the Stampeders “Against the Grain” record album. (With the hit single “Sweet City Woman” for those of you who care). The only memory I have of my half-brother, as a child, is that he and Carolyn visited when I had the measles. I remember this little boy gawking me as I lay on the roll-away cot in Granny and Grandad’s bedroom, a wool blanket covering the windows so I wouldn’t go blind. I would later hear that he to contracted the measles upon arriving home and that Carolyn was really mad that I had infected him.
The other memory I have is when we visited them in Calgary. The first time I ever ate Kraft Dinner - and the first time I ever ate any meal out of plastic Tupperware bowls. The oldest half-sister spilled hers on the floor and Carolyn went ballistic. Yelling, angry and punitive in a way that was out of proportion to the incident. It scared me. Beyond that, they were simply all strangers and I felt no connection to them whatsoever. Thus, I grew up feeling a silent but tremendously heavy guilt that I did not love them, and most notably - did not love my mother. EVERYONE loves their mother! What was wrong with me? I had unexpectedly found myself in the midst of some sordid tale. Child out of wedlock. A mother who had disgraced her family. And a father who...well - where was he anyway?
The other memory I have is when we visited them in Calgary. The first time I ever ate Kraft Dinner - and the first time I ever ate any meal out of plastic Tupperware bowls. The oldest half-sister spilled hers on the floor and Carolyn went ballistic. Yelling, angry and punitive in a way that was out of proportion to the incident. It scared me. Beyond that, they were simply all strangers and I felt no connection to them whatsoever. Thus, I grew up feeling a silent but tremendously heavy guilt that I did not love them, and most notably - did not love my mother. EVERYONE loves their mother! What was wrong with me? I had unexpectedly found myself in the midst of some sordid tale. Child out of wedlock. A mother who had disgraced her family. And a father who...well - where was he anyway?
As teenage years go, mine were pretty uneventful. The best years of your life right? Well maybe. I certainly didn’t think these were the best years of my life at the time (did any of us?). I learned to drive (no thanks to Grandad!), spent lots of time coming out of my shell as I participated in youth group, had more than a few crushes on various boys, and was heavily involved in the music program at my senior high school. And that shy girl who never said “boo” to a soul started to have a few opinions. I learned I could be funny. Who knew? But my grandparents and I were not seeing eye to eye any longer. And to get myself through my teenage drama (which was typically more imagined drama than reality) I would pray - wish - hope - that this nice, handsome young man from the photo in my baby book would come and rescue me from the (imagined) misery that was my life. My DAD would understand. My DAD would not say that to me. My DAD would help me. My DAD would love me. But he never made the appearance I hoped he would.
It is important to note at this juncture that Granny or Grandad never had educational aspirations for me. There were no books in our home except for the ones I brought in. As such, I got through the 12 years of school on my own steam. Finishing high school was the ultimate and most necessary educational goal in their mind - a goal neither of them had ever achieved. Post-secondary was a strange mystical animal that was never considered for my future. In part, because of the cost - but frankly, as a young girl, Granny actually told me often, that my aspiration was to find a man to take care of me so that I could be a wife and mother. They never considered the idea that girls could and should be educated and professionals. In grade 12 a friend and I actually applied to the Royal Conservatory of Music in Victoria, BC and I was sent an acceptance letter. That moment lasted all of 30 seconds. My grandparents were not prepared to pay for my schooling and as a sheltered, naive girl, I had no idea how to venture out on my own. None. And so, a tiny burgeoning dream was quickly and utterly extinguished. While many of my peers traveled or went on to College or University, I married.
Yeah...married. Pretty much straight out of high school. I wish I could tell you we were high school sweethearts. Or that I married the boy I loved. Nope. It...was...umm…weird. This is what happened.
I met John (not his real name) when I was in grade 11, he was in grade 12. He had flunked French 11 so was repeating it, thus he ended up in my French 11 class. He wasn’t bad looking. He was my first boyfriend. I frankly never thought we would date for very long. I knew in my head that he would eventually dump me. I was not very confident; no boy had ever showed any interest in me before this so I found it hard to believe this relationship would last very long. At around the 3 month mark, he said to me, “I’ve never gone out with a girl this long before so I think we should break up.” Since I knew this day was coming, I calmly said “OK”. It was not the answer he had been expecting and with a lot of back peddling he retracted his decision and I agreed to continue dating him.
In contrast to my indifference, Granny was smitten with him. He was boyish and charming and complimented Granny’s cooking (which was Granny’s love language! “I love you - here’s pie”. “I love you back, so I’ll eat this pie". And to ensure you meant it, you would have to say, "Please give me more pie”. Love was always gauged in the amount of food prepared and in return, eaten. Yeah - I’ve had my struggle with chubbiness. And I do like me some pie!)
In contrast to my indifference, Granny was smitten with him. He was boyish and charming and complimented Granny’s cooking (which was Granny’s love language! “I love you - here’s pie”. “I love you back, so I’ll eat this pie". And to ensure you meant it, you would have to say, "Please give me more pie”. Love was always gauged in the amount of food prepared and in return, eaten. Yeah - I’ve had my struggle with chubbiness. And I do like me some pie!)
Ummm...sorry - I digress.
Yes - as I was saying, Granny loved him a lot! I often remarked that she loved him more than me. I don’t think I was wrong. When John graduated, he left at the end of the summer, moving to Calgary to live with his grandparents to find work in the big city; we continued a long distance relationship. Those were the days of letter writing and expensive long distance phone calls. He would write me misspelled, mushy letters of undying love and I wrote back what he wanted to hear. Spelled correctly of course. To be clear - I liked having a boyfriend, but I was not in love with him.
In the meantime, I delved into my last year of high school with gusto. One day, for some inexplicable reason,I decided I wanted to learn a band instrument. Having only played the piano and guitar, and having been in every musical group in high school other than band, I chose French Horn. Tom Pagden, my band teacher sent me to a practice room every class with a French Horn and a music book that taught me fingering and I learned the notes, practiced my scales and after having mastered “Little Brown Jug” in the lesson book, was promoted from practice room to 3rd French Horn in Concert Band. I shared the sheet music with a boy named David. He had piercing blue eyes and a crooked grin and we soon became an item. I liked him a lot. He was quiet and smart and sincere and we started to date.
John soon heard about it however, and I received a few impassioned and desperate phone calls from him. I did not do conflict. I hated hurting people’s feelings. So I appeased him as best I could. Then I received a plane ticket in the mail. To Calgary. He had arranged it all - for me to fly out to Calgary, to stay with Carolyn, and he would take me shopping for a grad dress. Carolyn encouraged me to come and Granny was practically packing my suitcase. Once I arrived, in what would become common practice for him, he ambushed me with a surprise down-on-one-knee proposal of marriage, ring and all, in a very public place. Feeling tremendously conspicuous, uncomfortable, and embarrassed - the expectations of so many people teetering on my answer - I said what they all wanted me to say. Yes. Everyone seemed so happy. But I felt trapped. Upon my arrival home, Granny and Grandad already knew about the engagement. The one and only moment anyone asked me how I felt about this, was Grandad, teenage girl in his lap, head on his shoulder, he said: “Is this what you want?” I should have said no! Absolutely not. But I felt I was on some sort of runaway train and the most enthusiastic response I could muster was “I guess”. By the time Monday had rolled around, I had taken the ring off my finger. I didn’t want to be engaged but didn't know how to say it.
David was confused - dare I say, hurt. I was confused too but we continued to date. Granny refused to allow David into the house when he would come and pick me up. “Go away!” she would bark at him “She’s going to marry John!” I had literally never seen Granny so fierce about anything. And John heard about it all. That I had taken off the ring. That I continued to date David. He quit his job and flew back to the Valley. Frying pan into the fire. I look back at this time in my life and think “Where were all the adults?” Marriage? Really? To someone I was clearly ambivalent about. David, years and years later, made a statement, that echoed another friend’s comment that summed up what was happening. Granny and Grandad were trying to make sure I was taken care of. They had only signed on for 18 years and they were ready to hand me off to someone else to care for. And Granny, in particular, had decided that person was John. The pressure exerted on me by John on one side and Granny on the other, was substantial and unceasing. I held out as long as I could but John was shameless in how far he would go to coerce me and the long story short...I finally relented and agreed to marry him. I felt crushed that I would have to break things off with David or that I would cause him hurt. But I felt more afraid of what John might do if I didn’t agree. His relentlessness paid off. For him and for Granny. Not for me.
In the meantime, I delved into my last year of high school with gusto. One day, for some inexplicable reason,I decided I wanted to learn a band instrument. Having only played the piano and guitar, and having been in every musical group in high school other than band, I chose French Horn. Tom Pagden, my band teacher sent me to a practice room every class with a French Horn and a music book that taught me fingering and I learned the notes, practiced my scales and after having mastered “Little Brown Jug” in the lesson book, was promoted from practice room to 3rd French Horn in Concert Band. I shared the sheet music with a boy named David. He had piercing blue eyes and a crooked grin and we soon became an item. I liked him a lot. He was quiet and smart and sincere and we started to date.
John soon heard about it however, and I received a few impassioned and desperate phone calls from him. I did not do conflict. I hated hurting people’s feelings. So I appeased him as best I could. Then I received a plane ticket in the mail. To Calgary. He had arranged it all - for me to fly out to Calgary, to stay with Carolyn, and he would take me shopping for a grad dress. Carolyn encouraged me to come and Granny was practically packing my suitcase. Once I arrived, in what would become common practice for him, he ambushed me with a surprise down-on-one-knee proposal of marriage, ring and all, in a very public place. Feeling tremendously conspicuous, uncomfortable, and embarrassed - the expectations of so many people teetering on my answer - I said what they all wanted me to say. Yes. Everyone seemed so happy. But I felt trapped. Upon my arrival home, Granny and Grandad already knew about the engagement. The one and only moment anyone asked me how I felt about this, was Grandad, teenage girl in his lap, head on his shoulder, he said: “Is this what you want?” I should have said no! Absolutely not. But I felt I was on some sort of runaway train and the most enthusiastic response I could muster was “I guess”. By the time Monday had rolled around, I had taken the ring off my finger. I didn’t want to be engaged but didn't know how to say it.
David was confused - dare I say, hurt. I was confused too but we continued to date. Granny refused to allow David into the house when he would come and pick me up. “Go away!” she would bark at him “She’s going to marry John!” I had literally never seen Granny so fierce about anything. And John heard about it all. That I had taken off the ring. That I continued to date David. He quit his job and flew back to the Valley. Frying pan into the fire. I look back at this time in my life and think “Where were all the adults?” Marriage? Really? To someone I was clearly ambivalent about. David, years and years later, made a statement, that echoed another friend’s comment that summed up what was happening. Granny and Grandad were trying to make sure I was taken care of. They had only signed on for 18 years and they were ready to hand me off to someone else to care for. And Granny, in particular, had decided that person was John. The pressure exerted on me by John on one side and Granny on the other, was substantial and unceasing. I held out as long as I could but John was shameless in how far he would go to coerce me and the long story short...I finally relented and agreed to marry him. I felt crushed that I would have to break things off with David or that I would cause him hurt. But I felt more afraid of what John might do if I didn’t agree. His relentlessness paid off. For him and for Granny. Not for me.
After that ring hit my finger, all talk of marriage ended. There was no talk about a wedding. There was no date being set. No dress being bought. No guest list being compiled. No halls being reserved or rented. No wedding plans were being discussed at all. I got my first job. John was trying to find work and had been living in a campground in a tent but as summer ended, was living in his Uncles unfinished house in Fanny Bay. (So much irony...he couldn’t adequately take care of himself, yet Granny was still convinced he was the one to take care of me!). The last week in October John was dropping me off at home and we had sat in the driveway talking for quite some time. Grandad had flicked the lights multiple times. I guess that was code for “get yourself in the house!” When I finally got inside, Grandad was hopping mad (which was actually visually accurate - he had a way of bobbing his portly little frame up and down when he was furious). An argument ensued. I have no idea what was said but John finally said “Pack your things, you’re coming home with me and we’re getting married on Monday”. I obeyed.
On Monday, we walked into the Court House to get married only to find out that I needed parental consent. It was where I was told, by a civil servant, that my grandparents were not my legal guardians and that my mother or father were the only ones who could sign this consent. I remember arguing with this paper pushing government employee. How could my grandparents not be my legal guardians? They raised me. They made all the decisions in my life. They clothed me, fed me. And now my future was contingent on the whim of a woman I barely knew and didn’t even like? Or a man I didn't even know? I was now charged with informing my grandparents that they could not legally give consent to this marriage (this felt devastating) and subsequently had to make the phone call to Carolyn to ask her to fax her consent. Carolyn, to be fair, tried to at least play the part of my mother from time to time. This was such a time. Instead of faxing back consent she told me she was hopping on a plane and would be there at “her daughters wedding” in person! I’m not sure if I can adequately explain how upset this made me. I did not want her there. I don’t know why. Maybe because it just added to the farce. I was now seriously in over my head. Treading water.
On Monday, we walked into the Court House to get married only to find out that I needed parental consent. It was where I was told, by a civil servant, that my grandparents were not my legal guardians and that my mother or father were the only ones who could sign this consent. I remember arguing with this paper pushing government employee. How could my grandparents not be my legal guardians? They raised me. They made all the decisions in my life. They clothed me, fed me. And now my future was contingent on the whim of a woman I barely knew and didn’t even like? Or a man I didn't even know? I was now charged with informing my grandparents that they could not legally give consent to this marriage (this felt devastating) and subsequently had to make the phone call to Carolyn to ask her to fax her consent. Carolyn, to be fair, tried to at least play the part of my mother from time to time. This was such a time. Instead of faxing back consent she told me she was hopping on a plane and would be there at “her daughters wedding” in person! I’m not sure if I can adequately explain how upset this made me. I did not want her there. I don’t know why. Maybe because it just added to the farce. I was now seriously in over my head. Treading water.
John and I also visited his parents to inform them that we were getting married on Friday - the date by which Carolyn would arrive. They had never been all that thrilled about their son dating me - the fact that I was not a Catholic always seemed to cause some tension - and when we conveyed the news of this quickie marriage, they assumed it was because I was pregnant and said as much. I was mortified. Heretofore, I was still a virgin and to be accused of being pregnant was humiliating to me. And, the question that they spat at John, still rings in my ears to this day “Why would you want to marry a girl like her!?” They refused to come to the wedding.
Carolyn arrived on the Thursday. She was given my bedroom to stay in. That night, on the pull-out couch in my little house that I had grown up in, Carolyn played mother-of-the-bride to the hilt. And we had that little talk about my responsibility to my husband. My first such discussion actually. Granny had not been up for any birds-and-bee talk as I was growing up. I got a pamphlet slid under the door when I was about 10 years old explaining the menstrual cycle. I remember thinking, if I was a really, really good girl, I would not get this dreaded period. When I came home from school in grade 7 to discover I had “turned into a woman” I was utterly devastated. Other than that, my sex talk consisted of my high school peers conversations. I literally thought that “sleeping with a guy” could get you pregnant.
Anyway, more humiliation. I remember even to this day, how I felt my world spinning carelessly out of control and I had no idea what to do except keep my head down and try to ride it out. The next day, in the Courtenay Municipal Court House, John and I crammed into the Justice of the Peace’s office with Granny and Grandad, Carolyn (with a not-quite Emmy award winning portrayal of the emotional mother-of-the-bride), and John’s parents (who had decided they would come to their son’s wedding after all - and no word of a lie, his mother got her drivers license renewed at the same time - yeah, she was a classy one). We said some vows - none of which I remember. I only remember how terrified, small, helpless, and humiliated I felt. And that John misspelled his name on the paperwork.
Anyway, more humiliation. I remember even to this day, how I felt my world spinning carelessly out of control and I had no idea what to do except keep my head down and try to ride it out. The next day, in the Courtenay Municipal Court House, John and I crammed into the Justice of the Peace’s office with Granny and Grandad, Carolyn (with a not-quite Emmy award winning portrayal of the emotional mother-of-the-bride), and John’s parents (who had decided they would come to their son’s wedding after all - and no word of a lie, his mother got her drivers license renewed at the same time - yeah, she was a classy one). We said some vows - none of which I remember. I only remember how terrified, small, helpless, and humiliated I felt. And that John misspelled his name on the paperwork.
We were married November 2nd the same year I graduated high school. I set about trying to forget David and learn to love my husband.
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