Through the Eyes of a Child

AMANDA LOGGAN

Through The Eyes of a Child

If a house could talk, what would it say? The house in question is one in Caney, Kansas. I grew up in this tiny, isolated house, in a tiny isolated town where huge stone-cold walls surrounded every inch of the city's limit. My home, my life, my knowledge of freedom were all rooted in fallacies here in this somewhat forgotten town, even more so in my dank, cold home surrounded by steel bars that no man of the law could ever tear down. Oh, the secrets of these walls, even they shudder in fear that one day the truth may be revealed for all eyes to see the terror of me and my sisters' screams that still lurk in the shadows. On the outside, the image is a beautiful face, but on the inside of that face is the reality of sickness, chaos and abuse.

People in general sometimes miss really important concepts when growing up in a family of dysfunction. They develop habits, continuously living in a never-ending cycle of destruction. I have always felt that because of the abuse I grew up in that I somehow skipped the elementary basics of life and just lived on survival. It has been 14 years since my mother jerked us kids up from our home and father and ran for her and our lives. We hid out in safe houses put in place by government funded agencies for months, never attending school, living in a fantasy world, so to speak. We were one of those "fortunate families", bouncing back and forth like pin balls in a pinball machine. Some people ask me why I want to go back and visit my home, I never quite know what to say to them except, "curiosity I guess; I am curious as to what strengths I can take back by facing my "secret garden of fear". Maybe I can find the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle missing from my back side. Going back can't really be that bad, can it? My rebel heart beats chillingly rapid while droplets of sweat secrete from my flesh, as if racing to see who will splatter and die the quickest, mixed thoughts rage in my head, out of control like hamsters on crack. The long road to Caney is exhaustingly boring. The highway is ordinary, like all the others, but I know it is not. Nothing is ordinary about where I am going. So far, nothing triggers my memory. I see a sign that says, "Welcome ... " Above the lettering there is a faded graphic sun with a bright yellow smile flawlessly stenciled in. Shortly thereafter another sign follows, finishing the sentence ... to hell. It passes me by as if it didn't even notice me. The air becomes stale and thick and as I enter this town of 1500 closet skeletons, the townsmen hollowly turn and smile like the ghost in "Poltergeist" who walked around stealing little girls' souls. The men stared with their dark, sunken eyes mocking my memory's mere existence. I hear the women gossiping among themselves at the local farmer's Gas 'n' Go, as I pull in.

They are still chuckling in laughter, "Ha, ha, oh yes, that story, what a shame, what a shame, the Laggan family. Yep, it is too bad really, they were sweet girls, had a lot of potential .... no one would dare stop the mistreatment. You know, politics just wouldn't allow such a thing. Plus, we had our own families to worry about."

I hurry back into my vehicle. The inside is padded with security. As I turn on the ignition of my car, the mere purr of the engine expels the anxiety from my chest that had built up in the Gas 'n' Go. I am ready. I make a left turn onto Sixth Street. On my right, there is a faintly familiar old, crusted antique mall shaped like a big red barn where I had bought my first orange box of Weavers Pot Holder Makers at the age of nine. The strong padding in my car slowly melts away as I drive closer to the barred prison I had once called home. This place is where I learned to be who I am today. Panic begins to sink in once again, my mind beginning to race, "Can I do this, will he be there, what will I do if I see him, am I really that strong?" My chest is bloated with pain. The voice in my head is shrill, there I sit unable to breath, the world is spinning--STOP!--I stopped the car. "Calm down, take a deep breathe," I look in the mirror, ... there I am. I am not ready yet, so I decide to drive around a little before I face my demons.

As I drive around, I see green, luscious yards with yellow dandelions scattered like misplaced pieces. I observe an old, plump lady in her sweetened pink sun-dress. She has a light tan straw hat that holds a rosecolored flower cocked on the side. She is planting in her garden. I drive further up the street and see children laughing and playing without a care in the world. "Do I know any of them," I ask myself. "Do they think of me and my family ever?" I make a couple of turns and see the one restaurant in town, Pizza Hut. This is where I used to get those free plastic bibs with different Care Bears etched on them. I recall one time I placed a bib on a lamp and it had melted. That was the last Care Bear bib I had received. Silly folly stories, yet very soothing.

I am ready now, wanting and needing to go to that house one more time. I had come all this way; there is no turning back. In making that turn onto Sixth Street, I see the house on the left side of the road; the house that still holds that little girl imprisoned. She is in there somewhere fighting to get out, I just know it. The old house is, surprisingly, the same peach color it used to be. As I began to turn into the graveled driveway, anxiety flooding my heart, the echo of the gravel is pops feverishly underneath my car. This is the end of my dreams and the beginning of my nightmares.

From the outside the house seemed normal. It matches all the other houses around me. The old doghouse is still sitting there on the right side of the driveway where I had watched my stepfather take a stick and beat my beagle dog to death. I remember the yelps as Rebel took his last breath of life. I stepped out of the car and walked over to the old, wooden dog house. I can still see the faded stains of blood on the side. Chills run down

my spine. I look across the small, quaint backyard where the grass and tiny purple flowers cover-bunny ears as we used to call them--, my sisters and I used to pretend we were alone and feeding ourselves dinner with these flowers. To my right, I see the old barn where my stepfather would spill squirrel guts into his pail. After making his great kill he would make me watch him, as he would say, "it is important to know what hunting truly entails." The old, cheap swing-set is still sitting where my sisters and I must have played, although it could just have been there to make everyone else think we were a happy family, because we spent most of our time inside the house with dark, wooden paneled walls.

As I climb up the creaking steps of the old back porch, it seems as if every elongated sound lasts an eternity as I press my momentum forward. As I reached the top of four steps onto the porch, I looked back into the yard once again. I remember that one snowy day my sister and I were in our snowsuits and we jumped right off the porch into the snow, and it didn't even hurt. Every year after that I used to think, "What happened to that great snow, that one year it was so deep that I could jump in it and never hit the hard bottom?" I realized at that moment; it wasn't that the snow wasn't so deep, and the porch was not that high off the ground, it was that I was so small that the porch seemed high, the snow seemed deep, and my light weight could not penetrate the marshmallow snow overlaying the ground. I chuckled to myself as I turned toward this somewhat unfamiliar white door. It was still the same door with the glass window in the upper half. I took a deep breath and knocked ... nothing happened. I waited, and looked around anxiously and knocked again. What will I do if I see his face? Still, there is no answer. I then turned and walked back down the four, whole steps somewhat relieved and disappointed all at the same time. Maybe I shouldn't be here. Not now, and not alone. I decided to get back in my car and drive home. I felt disappointed because I felt I had come all this way and yet, nothing was accomplished. It has now been two years since I had visited that little town. I still wished I was able to dig deeper.

In writing this paper, I had wanted to discuss things with my sister. We were reminiscing the other evening. I had brought up a time in the past where I had thrown a piece of gum in the trash. The already chewed gum missed the trash can completely and stuck solidly on the wall next to a trash can. I had figured, oh well, close enough, and walked away. I was always the lazy one. I remember noticing how my sister had put her gum directly in the trash can. When it came time for confession on my part, I simply pointed out my sister's gum and claimed it for myself. I spoke up first and she was younger than me, so she became the guilty one. She took the rap for my lazy behavior that night. I remember her screaming bloody hell in her room. She received thirty lashes. I had counted them myself. She was then brought out of her room, thrown on the floor in front of me

and he stepped on her throat. He had said, "Liars don't deserve to live", and she passed out. She was about five years old and I was about eight years old. She has always remembered that. The evening we discussed this historic event, she admitted to me that she had hated me for a long time because she always received my punishments. I laid there trying to sleep that night. I started to remember her screams and how I sat there and did nothing. I wanted to go and rescue her, but I knew what certain horror I would be walking into. So I just sat there and became cold and callous toward the reasoning of truth and honesty. I could not sleep. I lay there restless. I needed to fix this. So I called him.

I picked up the black phone; half delirious, half determined. My fingers began to push the buttons while I mumbled to myself, "Remember, remember". As I spoke to him, he admitted his faults and temper. He admitted that he was really screwed up and had to take a lot of counseling and I sat there realizing that he was a man that had made many mistakes and felt horribly about the beatings and abuse he enraged upon us. He told me how it was never our fault. But I wanted more. So I told him how it affected us for life and all he could honestly say was he was sorry and he would take it back if he could.

After the phone call, I sat there dumbfounded. After all of that, facing the "monster'', facing the past demons; there I was. Nothing was achieved. I felt the same, and yet, somehow actually worse. I went to sleep with a very old yet familiar sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. What was even more disturbing was that I was comforted by that sick feeling. The next day I awoke feeling even more sick. I spent the morning over my toilet. It is official I decided, I am mentally ill, and now I am physically ill.

I came to realize, we all have demons lurking in the shadows of our past. The best thing for us to do is not to forget, and act as if they never existed. The trick is to remember how you felt and accept it and still press forward. Stay focused as to who you really are. This is who I am, I was abused, I was socially behind schedule because of such things, and I struggled with my education because I didn't know how to deal with my past hurt. I have learned to survive by cheating, lying and stealing. This is who I was and have been in life since then. Now, I am putting that part behind me. Naked and exposed, here I am.