First Disclaimer: The people in this story are real. The names used are real. The events are as accurate as possible from the perspective told. Recalling this story is like playing a decades-long game of telephone, where one child whispers a story into the ear of another and that child repeats the story to another child down the line. Only in this game of telephone, a child may wait many years or decades to pass the story along. During this time, the original story heard from the previous child has become foggy and the subsequent child may not remember it accurately. Or the child has grown older and the original story has taken on a different meaning or significance than when originally heard.
Second Disclaimer: The names and perspectives of many individuals were omitted from this story. The net of abuse is cast wide and affects a multitude of people in too many ways to possibly capture in a short essay. This story only reflects my perceptions and views on any single day.
My father’s name was Glen and his origins always seemed a bit of a mystery to me. His parents and only known sibling (at least known at that time) lived in California. He had scores of cousins in California but also some close relatives a few hours away in my home state of Kansas. Many of Glen’s childhood stories were of growing up in California, but just as many seemed to take place in Kansas. As a child, I was never quite sure whether to tell my friends my father was from Kansas or from California. Today I’m not really sure what he would have said as I think it was probably confusing for him as well. The stories he told were often of a tumultuous upbringing with constant movement. His father, Howard, was a constant rambler, never happy to stay in one place too long. Glen talked of attending 200 different schools growing up. Whether this was true, an exaggeration, or simply how my father remembered his childhood I will never know. But the stories matched with what I knew of his father, Howard. Howard certainly moved around a lot, constantly on the move well into his 80s. His most valued possessions were his yellow 1970s Toyota Corolla and what few keepsakes that would fit in it. His treasured possessions included a bowling ball, a Gibson guitar, and an old tweed guitar amplifier. He would constantly shuffle his few belongings back and forth across the country. I easily imagine that he did this his entire life, for many years with my grandmother, Margaret, and his two sons, Wayne and Glen, in tow. After 45 years of marriage, Margaret left her husband and decided to spend her few remaining years a few hours away in Kansas. I recall being told that she wanted to be closer to her youngest son, Glen, and his family. I had only seen her a few times growing up and welcomed the opportunity to get to know her better. But we only had about a year’s worth of weekends to make up for lost time before she passed. I would never get to know my grandfather Howard well either.
What I know about Howard and Margaret can only be pieced together from the few times I saw them while growing up and the stories I remember being told. It was often told that Margaret was only 13 years old when she gave birth to her first son, Wayne. This story was always told with a smile or a chuckle and carried a disclaimer that things were quite different back then, that it was not at all uncommon to give birth at a young age. A part of the story not told as often or, if told, in a more hushed tone, was how much older Howard was than Margaret at the time. Truth be told, Margaret was not 13 years old when she gave birth to Wayne. She was 14 years old when Wayne was conceived. Howard was 23. Glen was born the day after Margaret’s 18th birthday when Howard was 26. Looking back I can now only imagine a 23 year old man and his child bride trekking back and forth repeatedly between Kansas and California while Wayne and Glen grew into teenagers. Later in life we would learn that, just prior to Wayne’s birth, Howard had run away from an earlier child and the mother who bore him while still a child herself.
My mother would often tell me stories about how Howard “was hard” on Glen. I do not recall any specific examples, but I retain mental images of a young Glen cowering beneath an enraged Howard. In these stories, Margaret would rush in, putting herself between Howard and Glen, maybe taking a blow on his behalf. Today I don’t know how accurately these mental images reflect what actually happened. I don’t remember my father ever telling me any stories about it. But there always seemed to be a strained relationship between Glen and Howard and a feeling that Margaret was constantly validating her youngest son.
The relationship between Howard and Glen appeared in sharp contrast to the relationship between Howard and my uncle Wayne. Wayne seemed so obviously to be Howard’s favorite son and the reasons seemed so clear. In all of the stories I heard about Wayne, he was dashing, intelligent, and successful. Wayne was an Air Force veteran and a mounted policeman who married a beautiful woman from a wealthy family. Glen’s story, on the other hand, was of a high school dropout who joined the Army at 16 only after Howard hesitantly signed the paperwork that would get Glen out of jail and allow him to enlist as a minor. At the rare McCammond family gathering I attended, Wayne would be engaged in proud, colorful storytelling while Glen sat timidly at the edge of the circle listening intently. Wayne was the favorite son and nobody knew it more than Glen. Most of the wonderful stories about Wayne were constantly retold by Glen. Next to proud, confident Wayne, Glen was always the timid, awkward little brother that never measured up.
My mother’s origin story could not be more different than that of my father’s. My mother’s name is Kathy and she grew up in the same rural Kansas area where her mother grew up like her mother’s mother before that. I grew up in that same rural Kansas community. We were constantly surrounded by Kathy’s relatives. Her mother, Martina, and Martina’s parents, my great-grandparents, lived less than a mile away. Kathy grew up with and around dozens of cousins, uncles, aunts, great aunts, and great uncles. The first white settlers to that area of Kansas included a small group of Volga-German families, amongst which included Kathy’s ancestors. Kathy’s (and my) hometown and heritage were intricately intertwined with her family lineage.
Kathy’s life story was somewhat of a fairy tale up until she was about 10 years old. She was blessed with doting sets of grandparents who lived next door to each other, competing for the opportunity to smother her with affection and freshly baked German desserts. Being the first child of her generation, affection also flowed from aunts and uncles who lived in the same community. Her mother, Martina, and her father, Joe, were staples of the community. Joe was the lead singer and guitarist of a local polka and country western band that was made up of other members of Joe’s and Martina’s families. Martina would spend much of her life as a leader of local community and church groups. Kathy loved her parents deeply and would talk fondly of each of them nearly daily for her entire life. Kathy was later joined by three other siblings and they all lived on a quaint Kansas farm, four kids always smiling and covered in dirt.
When Kathy was 10 years old, she had an accident at the city swimming pool. Attempting to jump off the diving board for the first time, she jumped towards the side of the pool rather than straight out and hit her head on the concrete. Kathy would tell decades later how she still remembered what it was like slamming her head into the concrete, causing her to temporarily lose feeling in the side of her body that hit the pool’s edge. People who later new Kathy as an adult would tell you that her cognitive functioning was similar to that of a 10-year old girl. Kathy would never tell anybody that, but she would retell the swimming pool incident to anyone who would listen. My siblings and I would later discuss our mother’s limited cognitive functioning and wonder whether it was undiagnosed autism or as result of the swimming pool incident Kathy so often told of.
Kathy’s 10th year was also the year her father died. It was New Year’s Eve and Joe was making his usual rounds, wishing Happy New Year to friends and relatives in the area. On the way home, Joe crashed through a guard rail and plummeted into the creek’s edge below. A classic rockabilly tale, there were whispers of too much drinking and a drag race. Joe’s gold-top Gibson guitar was pulled from the back seat of the demolished car. Martina was left with no husband and four young children to raise on her own.
Martina went on to marry Max. The perfect Disney movie villain, Max was a strict step-father, emotionally and physically abusive. He would begrudgingly support Martina’s children, but Max would make the rules, even as the children reached adulthood. When Kathy wanted to join the Navy, Max forbade it, stating that any women who joined the Navy were nothing but whores. When Kathy became pregnant at the age of 20, Max ensured the baby was given up for adoption. Kathy could not possibly raise a fatherless bastard and a half-Mexican bastard at that. Kathy resented this replacement for her father and would speak coldly of Max and his abuse for her entire life.
During the early 1970s, Glen would follow a local oil boom to Ness City, Kansas. A tough and wiry wildcat, Glen learned to work hard in the oilfields during the day and drink hard at night. He would eventually meet Kathy in that small Kansas town though I’m not sure how they were introduced. But I often wonder what attracted Glen to Kathy. What did Glen find interesting about a small town girl with child-like cognitive functioning? I now believe that, like his father before him, Glen was a sexual predator and attracted to child-like women. During drunken binges, Glen would later tell stories of his early adulthood that alluded to sexual encounters with young teenage girls. Some of these encounters were ostensibly consensual while others sounded too much like aggravated rape. Glen would even tell of gang rapes that he either observed or participated in. I find that details now allude me, either because Glen was never clear about his participation or because my mind chooses to block out some of my father’s devastatingly disappointing revelations. Regardless of these details, for a sexual predator like Glen, child-like Kathy would have provided an easy and accessible sexual encounter.
After two decades of rambling, Glen would decide to stick around Ness City. Kathy would again become pregnant out of wedlock. But instead of another secret birth at a Catholic adoption hospital, Glen would marry Kathy. Their union would produce four children. I was the second oldest.
My childhood would straddle two seemingly different worlds. Half of my world was a midwestern utopia. A small, caring community. Strong, loving grandparents and great-grandparents. I was a Boy Scout and an alter boy like my uncles before me. We would spend holidays and every Sunday at my grand-mother Martina’s house. Ham loaf, knitted sweaters, and perfectly wrapped gifts under the tree. We’d play with our cousins and visit with Kathy’s siblings, all picture-perfect in every way. Martina’s house was a sheltered diversion from my world’s other half in my parents’ house. My house was unkept, chaotic, and violent. At this house, Glen would come home each night after a drunken binge. He would stagger in through the front door and immediately demand his supper. Kathy, long accustomed to this routine, would have his dinner tucked away in the microwave. A full time nurse’s aide and mother of four, Kathy’s meals were often simple and unimpressive. Sometimes Glen would just sit in his recliner and eat his food before going to bed. On other nights, Glen would pass out before taking a bite, lying in his recliner with a plate of food spilled in his lap. But on some nights, Glen would burst into fury and violence. Dinner plates would fly across the living room, shattering or empaling the sheetrock walls. Glen would scream violence and obscenities. “You lazy, no good fucking bitch! How come you can’t clean like your mother!” Kathy would often cry and cower in fear, cleaning up broken glass and spaghetti, or trying to piece together shards of broken chinaware handed down by her mother. Sometimes Kathy would try to fight back or defend herself. On these nights, an objection may mean a black eye or a bruised cheek. An attempted call to the Sheriff might bring a broken finger.
I don’t remember a time during my childhood when these drunken assaults didn’t occur. Glen was a violent alcoholic until his death. In my later teenage years I would begin to struggle with my world’s two halves. When in my grandmother’s world I was hard working and polite, still an alter boy. In my father’s world I began to smoke cigarettes, drag race, and drink alcohol. When I crossed over into my grandmother’s world I would wonder if they could see through my façade. Could my picture perfect uncles smell the beer on my breath and cigarette smoke on my high school letterman jacket? What did they think about my rough edgy friends and our beat up muscle cars? Did they know my father was a violent drunk who terrorized their sister with flying dishes and angry fists? Years later, an uncle would tell me that he knew my father had problems but that he was sorry and “didn’t realize things were that bad.” I now often wonder how that could be. You may be able to mask the smell of cigarette smoke with a spray of cologne. Its much more difficult to camouflage a black eye and a broken finger.
As I grew from teenager to young adult, I struggled trying to come to terms with who my father was. I, like my uncle Wayne, was my father’s favorite son. I would go to work with him on most Saturdays. We would drive through the countryside monitoring oil wells while he told me the importance of being a hard worker. He taught me to drive a stick shift when I was six. We shot guns and rebuilt motors together. He would take me to the tavern with him and teach me to shoot pool. My younger brother had an opposite experience. Awkward and timid like Glen always was, my younger brother was often ignored. Wiry and mischievous like his father, my brother more often received the sharp end of a leather belt than the kind mentorship or admiration of a father. As an adult, my younger brother is a spitting image of his father, both in appearance and demeanor. But, while my father always concealed a beast behind his timid, awkward exterior, my brother evinces a dog kicked too many times, weary, unsure, and incapable of attack.
As I aged, I repeatedly revisited the image of my father, trying to reconcile the man who taught me so much that shaped who I would become with the man who terrorized my mother and so badly damaged my little brother. When I was a teenager I was my father’s most ardent defender. My father’s rough image validated my belonging amongst my roughshod friends. I would tell my friends that my dad was an alcoholic but that my mother drove him to drinking. As a young adult I would find my father to be badly flawed but still lovable. While loving my father, I would sometimes cry when reminded of the damage inflicted on my brother. During these many years of reflection on my father, I cannot recall my mother’s role ever coming into focus. While I long recognized a damaged relationship between my mother and I, it was not until decades into adulthood that I truly recognized her victimhood. Only after my father’s death and shortly before my mother’s death would I recognize my mother as the child-like victim of a lifelong predator guilty of unforgivable sins. After more than 40 years I finally looked at my mother and told her that I saw how badly my father had hurt her.
As a child, I learned to walk around my grandmother’s world without ever allowing a glimpse into my father’s world. Broken chinaware and spilled spaghetti could remain hidden behind the front door of my parents’ home. Black eyes and broken fingers could be explained away by a slip on an icy front porch. Cigarette smoke could be masked by a spray of cheap cologne. As a child of abuse, I would use these skills throughout my first 40 years. Anyone who knew me would find me smart, talented, and capable. I would have a successful career and a picture perfect family. But beneath this picture perfect portrayal, I was an enabler and a functioning alcoholic. For over 20 years I remained married to a partner who was abusive, codependent, and addicted to gambling. For these 20 years, I taught my daughters to be enablers of abuse, codependency, and addiction.
As I speed through middle age, I am blessed to have met a loving partner and have discovered healing and refuge from a lifetime of abuse. But I remain surrounded by the lasting remnants of decades of intergenerational trauma and abuse. Each day I experience loved ones who continue to live in fear of abusive partners and relatives. I hope that, by telling this story, I may encourage others to tell their stories. By telling these stories, may we someday break this chain, this legacy of abuse. May we say, “I see you are being abused and I see your abuser.” May we never have to tell a loved one, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize things were that bad.”