Читать книгу Brave - Rose McGowan - Страница 12

It was in the bathroom of the plane taking me to America that I remember first really seeing myself in a mirror. I didn’t really know what I was staring at, because I had no attachment to the face I was staring at. I didn’t know that once I got off that plane, I would land in a world of here’s what you can’t do because you’re a girl and here’s why you’re different and fucked because you’re a girl. It was like a pink school uniform for the mind. The first place I was sent was a small town naval base. I went from Florence, Italy, to Gig Harbor, Washington. Or to be more blunt, I essentially went from the cradle of Western civilization to a place with rednecks and jacked-up trucks with big wheels. America was terrifying. Loud. Jarring. I hated the food instantly. I hated how aggressive people were. My brother and I were sent, ahead of my father, to live with my step-grandmother, Dorothy, yet another adult I didn’t know but was supposed to attach to. She was a tall brunette cigarette smoker with a big throaty laugh. She loved America. She talked about it a lot. My first night in the USA was spent in terror of the bear she told me might eat me in the night. The only thing she knew how to cook was boiled tomatoes, and I cried because I missed the food in Italy.

I was taken to Denny’s, a chain restaurant with frankly terrible food, the worst that American cuisine has to offer. They had a big menu with pictures on it. I was so excited to see spaghetti on the menu, I started speaking excitedly in Italian and waving my hands around. When it arrived, it was a gelatinous blob. I stared at it. Picked it up with a fork, and instead of being normal pasta, it stayed together as one unit. There was also a big lake of lukewarm water underneath the spaghetti blob. I just started crying because I knew my life was never going to be the same again. I had landed in a world of Tater Tots and Cheez Whiz, and there was no going back. Fuck.

Everything was different. Not just the food, but the land, the trees, the sounds. It rained all the time in this new place. The cars were so big and so loud. The people were so big and so loud. I had never even seen wooden houses. In Italy all the houses had been made of stone. I had never been around Americans. I had never heard music piped in through loudspeakers. My brother and I huddled together when announcements blared out in the supermarket. We’d never seen fluorescent lights. We’d never seen orange cheese.

Dear America, why is your cheese orange? Who decided: “Let’s make this an unnatural shade of orange”? It’s completely arbitrary. My brother and I thought it was hilarious. We’d point our fingers and snicker. But the joke was on us. We were stuck there.

My first day in my American school I was made to stand in front of the class and lead them in the Pledge of Allegiance. I didn’t know what the Pledge of Allegiance was. I could understand English—I just refused to speak it. I heard the teacher say, “This’ll get the Communist out of her.” I turned to the teacher and uttered just one word: “Fascistas.” Fascists. That’s what the Italians were during the war, you dummy, not Communists.

Indeed, it seemed the welcome message was unmistakable: You’re different. We must crush the difference out of you.

There’s a tenacious myth that America glorifies individualism, but trust me, if you are a true individual, you will be persecuted. Schools force-feed you the propaganda version of the world and of history. The bullshit version. So that by the time you graduate you’re chanting along with everyone else: “America, hell yes, white men are number one!” Why? Why do you say America is number one? Because if you actually look at the statistics, around the world America is not in fact number one at anything anymore, except maybe obesity, firearm deaths, the death penalty, and incarceration rates. Oh, and of course, military might and our other big export: American film and television.

This is when reactionaries start yelling about how other countries are worse, so why don’t I go live there, et cetera, et cetera. My view is why not just be better? Why should we continue to feel superior just because other places are worse? That sounds like bad logic to me. We can just be better by thinking differently. Thinking whatever is different about you must be stripped from you is the WRONG way to approach things. Thinking you must be homogenized for everybody else’s comfort level, because God forbid discomfort, is the WRONG way, too. Fuck those ways of thinking. Do not bend yourself to make others feel taller.

When I arrived at school, they said to me, “Stop reading what you’re reading. This is what you’re allowed to read because you’re X.” “Stop doing what you’re doing, girls can’t do that.” The adults I met were dedicated in their pursuit of beige, not all, but most. Our neighbors had no interest in being intrigued or expanded by an alternative lifestyle or viewpoint. They didn’t want to know what else might exist out there in the world. They just wanted to kill it because it was different. I longed for my dad and his strangeness. I needed an antidote, fast.

After a few months, my brother and I were flown to a state called Colorado to reunite with my father. Colorado is one of the most beautiful places on earth. We lived in a little wooden house at the base of a majestic mountain in a mostly hippie community, a town called Evergreen. I loved Colorado, even if I still was not a fan of American food. Soon after, my new stepmother arrived, and life in Colorado was mostly good. I adjusted to my new life better in this freer environment than I had living by the naval base. I had come to love Colorado even if I didn’t understand a lot of the social cues of my school peers. At least I was treated well by the teachers, so that was a nice change.

Around this time, I found a book on astral projection. Astral projection is the practice of essentially leaving your body behind and traveling by spirit. I would lie in bed and practice my hardest to get out of my body. I wanted to travel and find my mother.

My mother was still in Italy, and unbeknownst to me was making her way back to America to a state called Oregon. Later I would find out that my dad essentially left her behind to get out of Children of God on her own. Her only living relatives were her sister and her grandmother Vera. Grandma Vera sent her the money to get home and helped my mom restart her life in traditional society.

One day I was told I’d be going to Oregon that night to join my mother. I was excited at first, before I understood that Oregon was not going to be a happy place for me.

Looking back, I have to say, I am incredibly impressed with my mom; she made it back from Italy, raised six kids on no money, occasionally surviving on food stamps, while my dad was living with his new wife. My mom had six kids not because she had really wanted to, but because the cult had encouraged her to. To me it seemed she was embarrassed about her life. Even now, I know she dislikes it when I talk about the cult, but to me it’s not her shame, it’s just an alternative adventure she went on. There is no shame that should be hers, plus I’m certain it was my father’s idea.

When my mother landed back in America, her grandmother helped her get government housing. These houses were pretty basic compared to the prettier home I lived in with my father, but I was ecstatic to be reunited with my mother and other siblings.

Unfortunately, as the oldest girl I got the shaaaaaft. I had to be Mom Jr. I was ten. Taking care of a gang of wild children is not easy when you’re a kid. I didn’t want to be a substitute mom. I was not suited for it because I like to think too much and get agitated when I can’t. I need quiet. I didn’t want to be the enforcer, I wanted to go and stare at the clouds. My style of child rearing was not with the best bedside manner, to put it mildly. I was getting angrier and angrier at the circumstances of my life. My powerlessness. I knew I had to help my mom, and I did, but I was not cheerful about it.

Oregon was where I learned to understand the value of a dollar. I discovered what it’s like to struggle and be embarrassed when you leave the free food line at church with your block of bright orange cheese. The sadistic school receptionist called our names out over the loudspeaker so everyone in the school could laugh at the poor kids who had to claim free lunch tickets. I’ll never forget the sneer on the receptionist’s smarmy face when I had to pick up my tickets. Complete classism. I resented those lunch tickets, not to mention the disgusting food. I scalped the tickets on the side to make a little profit. I’ve always been very entrepreneurial.

Things were going somewhat okay in Oregon, which was to say, hard. Then I met a guy named Lawrence. He lived down the street from us. He had caught me sneaking under his fence to feed his dog bread and give it water. The dog was tied up, chained to a tree. His collar was so deeply embedded in his throat that it had maggots all around it. This was a severely abused animal, which should have given some indication of Lawrence’s character. He caught me feeding his dog and threw me out of his yard by the strap on my overalls. I landed on my ass. I hated him instantly. Two weeks later, I got home and who should be sitting in a chair in our living room but Lawrence, with his fat belly, making everybody wait on him hand and foot like he was king of the castle. I walked in the door and he looked at me with a sadistic smile. I froze. He said, “Hi, Rose. Call me Dad.” I remember just screaming, “NO!,” and running into the field that was behind our house, hiding there. Soon after, he moved in with his two daughters, Autumn and Mary, and his son, Larry (Junior). Lawrence Sr. was charming at first. But I wasn’t falling for it. I knew what his dog looked like. I knew the hell this man could bring. He was truly evil, and he had my mom snowed. I kept desperately trying to tell her, but she wouldn’t or couldn’t listen to me. Despite the fact that she’d escaped Children of God and its patriarchal structure, the societal programming that a man was going to save her was so deeply embedded, she couldn’t see the truth. She was probably also lonely. My mom didn’t have any girlfriends because she was so busy with so many kids and working full-time.

Probably the first time I ever saw anything sexual was walking into my mom and Lawrence’s bedroom. I didn’t even understand what was going on, when suddenly a shoe was thrown at me. That was my introduction to sex. A shoe to the head.

As it turned out, my creepy new faux dad was molesting his daughter Mary. We found out years later when she bravely brought charges against him. I always felt something was really wrong, though, instinctively. Mary, who was about fourteen at the time, and I were forced to take baths together while Lawrence watched. Having only recently met her, it was distressing for me. I knew something was off about this and hid myself as much as I could. We would both huddle and turn away.

Apparently Lawrence liked blondes, and thank God I had dark hair. But I saw him looking at my sister Daisy, who was blond. Sometimes she would walk down the hall and I would see him stand up and start following her. I would block his path and get in his face. Well, I would get in his stomach, because I was ten. One particular time I spit at him and it landed perfectly on his lips. He gave me a beating and I took it. I was damned if I was going to let him do anything to Daisy. One of my proudest achievements is keeping her safe from him.

But there was only so much I could do to protect my sisters and brothers during this period. I did my best. My youngest brother, Robby, was three and a half, so cute and so pretty. He rode his Big Wheel tricycle down the street, and for some reason, it set Lawrence off. Lawrence marched out, took spiky rosebush branches, and beat my little brother until he was bleeding all over his back and his bum. Outside of the house, Lawrence made his son and daughter forcibly hold me up and make me look through the window to watch him as he beat my brother. I had never hated anyone more.

Lawrence would find other sick ways to rile me up. He knew I hated the N-word and he would get in my face and say it over and over until I lashed out at him, so then he had an excuse to beat me with his belt buckle. Now I look at ten-year-olds and I think, Jesus, they’re small. I was small.

Lawrence listened in on the line when we had our weekly phone call with my father to make sure we didn’t tell him what was going on. He monitored the mailbox, too, so we couldn’t send any letters for help. It drove me insane that this worthless human had power and control over me. The beatings were one thing, but silencing me was his favorite thing and what I hated him for the most. He punished me by not allowing me to speak for a month. I was not allowed to utter a word. I felt so violated. I have had my voice stolen many times since, but that was a big one because it was so literal. I have no idea what I did to get grounded off speaking; knowing me it was probably for talking back. When it was mealtime, I would look across the table at my mother, beseeching her with my eyes, trying to get her to intervene, but there was nothing to be done. Having a voice and being heard is a fundamental human right and this indignity set a kind of pattern in my life.

After a while, my mom did try to break up with him, numerous times. She’d say it was over, that he was gone for good, and I’d get my hopes up, but then he’d be back. One night, he drove around in his pickup truck with a shotgun threatening to kill my mom. I hid in the back of the truck and when I caught sight of her running, I’d shout warnings: “He’s coming from the left, he’s coming from the right, go right!” Finally, after that, she broke up with him for good. Abusive relationships are no joke and extremely hard to escape, but she did it.

Later, my mother found out he’d done terrible things to all these other women he’d been with before and after her. He’d gotten off every single time in court, playing the system. He even got off the molestation charges. The cops loved him. He got off all the time. No one would listen. Eventually, Lawrence kidnapped his son’s girlfriend and raped her across three states in the cab of his truck, holding a shotgun on her. He was finally arrested and sentenced to jail time. I hope he’s dead. I hope someone drove a stake through his heart.

I think of how many kids are abused, and how heartbreaking it is that no one helps them. And then it just begets more abuse. I don’t know where Lawrence’s kids are today. Poor Mary. I hope that poor girl is still alive, and I hope she’s doing okay. I hope her and her siblings haven’t had their lives totally ruined.

I remember thinking as a young girl, How is it possible that women can be so gullible? They just ignore the reality of what is happening and believe what they want to believe. I think women in general, and my mom for sure, got sold this bill of goods, the story that a man will save them. I don’t think that’s really changed even for girls today. We’re still getting sold the same story. I had to unpack it because later even I was ensnared in an abusive relationship.

We need to look at why so many women believe a man is going to save us. It’s not because of evidence of saving. I haven’t seen a lot of dudes on white stallions pulling up to single women’s homes. In fact, I have seen most women get on their own damn stallion. It’s just male-dominated society that snows us into not noticing it’s we women doing the saving. We are the white stallion and we have to wait for no one but ourselves.

Even though I had these early experiences with men who were horrible beasts, I still somehow got it imprinted in me that a powerful man was going to come along and make my life easier. In reality, they usually just complicated things. Even though rationally I knew it wasn’t true, there’d always been this feeling deep inside me that I was bad, and men were, somehow, the superior ones. I was bad because I was tempting. I was bad because there was want attached to me. Lawrence was truly a psychopath, probably the first true psychopath that I met. I would go on to meet others, but he set the mold. There’s a direct correlation between my relationship with my father and Lawrence, and later on my relationship with men for the rest of my life.