TWO IMAGES OF JOHANN
Step Eleven – ‘We sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God.’ – introduced meditation into my morning routine. Despite a mild reservation, a hangover from my fundamental Christian teenage years that suggested I might be opening a door for who knows what, I found an elderly Buddhist teacher who was not dressed in bohemian attire or traditional orange, but rather reminded me of an orderly hospital matron. ‘To practice Mindfulness of Breathing,’ she started, ‘first, find a suitable place, perhaps a room that is not too noisy and where you are not likely to be disturbed.’ Then she taught me to sit with my legs folded, a pillow under my buttocks to straighten my back, nestle my hands in my lap, close my eyes, and to breathe in slowly through my nose, hold and then slowly release my breath through my mouth.
I bought a meditation bench, Tibetan rosewood prayer beads, and some guided meditation CDs, and I’d set an alarm to avoid wandering off. However, the weakening of my thoughts or the quieting of my mind, as I was taught, rarely happened. In truth, I’m not sure if I ever managed to achieve any form of stillness for more than two breaths. But I couldn’t help noticing the difference between when I at least attempted to meditate and when I didn’t. I felt strangely more aligned as if I was going with the flow as opposed to swimming upstream. I was a little more patient and tolerant with life’s unexpected curveballs, and almost everything seemed magically easier – from dealing with that client who believed he was the only client and school projects that had been left for the last day, to finding an elusive parking spot in the most unlikely of areas.
I’d been doing my best to read The Courage to Heal, written by Ellen Bass and Laura Davis, which had helped so many survivors to reclaim and rebuild their lives. But as much as I tried to follow Kathy’s suggestion, I couldn’t manage more than a page, or sometimes a single paragraph, before heading to the bathroom to throw up. The authors had been criticized for their lack of psychotherapy training and the Australian False Memory Syndrome Foundation had reportedly linked their book to roughly fifty per cent of all false allegations. I wasn’t too concerned because my more recent memory, the one that involved my father, surfaced long before I’d even heard of their book. In a way, my physical revulsion to this collection of sexual abuse stories helped confirm my own abuse. But then, I wasn’t confused about being abused when I was eight. If anything, I was doing my level best to forget and to deny its very existence. I didn’t want to think about it and the last thing I wanted was for anyone else to know about what happened. I’d discussed the image with my mother, and I was relieved to hear she didn’t believe it was my father. I’d gone down a rabbit hole researching all that I could download about traumatic dissociative amnesia. But even with Kathy’s help, I couldn’t make sense of this disturbingly disorganized memory that had been haphazardly triggered at my lunchtime meeting on Greenmarket Square.
Overwhelmed, I’d removed all photos of my father. I couldn’t bear to look at myself, while simultaneously feeling profoundly guilty for initially believing what had been revealed to me. Jeremy’s departure had brought up Biddulph’s words from his book Manhood, words I’d studied shortly after Jeremy’s birth: ‘It’s important at some stage of your life, to have a profound conversation or series of conversations with your father. Only by doing this can you get an understanding of his life, his reasons, his failures and his successes. Unless you take this step, you will always be building your manhood on shifting sands – on guesswork.’ He goes on to say, ‘Even if he was an alcoholic, a wife-beater, a child abuser, even if you never met him, your biological father still matters. Until you come to terms with him, he will haunt you from the inside.’
My mother’s father had been a violent alcoholic and wife-beater. In the normal course of events, it was perfectly normal for my mother to have attracted a person of similar character. My father did drink alcohol until my sister had refused to kiss him, then he never touched a drop again. My father was a war hero, but he couldn’t hurt a fly. I wish I could dismiss what was an incredibly vivid memory, but I simply couldn’t. Nor could I dismiss the possibility that his alcohol addiction might have morphed into a perverted form of sex addiction. But according to my understanding of Biddulph’s writing, even if my father had hurt me I would have to find a way to understand him.
I was working with Kathy and regularly visiting Rhodes Memorial where we’d spread my father’s ashes. I’d sit on the boulder which marked the spot and where the foliage appeared suggestively denser. I’d discuss what was going on for me and symbolically hold both images in my hands. In one hand, I’d hold the memory of a loving father who once bought me an oversized bright yellow kite that nearly dragged me across the field, a regal but sensitive man who cried on the platform when I left for the army and whenever my sister and I fought. And in the other hand, I held the vivid image of a man who might have profoundly hurt me. But try as I did, I simply couldn’t combine the two. If I had to understand, then the very best I could manage was to accept that I wasn’t able to accept the unacceptable.
I’d worked with Kathy for roughly three years when The Courage to Heal, or I should rather say the book’s critics, lead me to the controversial topic of false memory syndrome. Immature childhood memories can often be a mixture of facts and fantasies. I determined that this particular flashback memory had taken on an elaborate life of its own in its reconstructive process. With zero collaborative evidence to the contrary, I concluded that my memory had attached my father’s face to fill in the gaps. Quite possibly because he was the one person I trusted more than any other to love and protect me. I was happy to have my father back and to remember the gentle, loving, regal man that he was. A hero who had survived the horrors of war. A man who could have gotten out, after being wounded in the deserts of northern Africa, but who chose to re-join his regiment in Italy. Before his war was over, he ended up enduring fifty-plus operations in an attempt to save his leg. A man, who despite his ongoing struggle with PTSD, had worked tirelessly to support his family.
But I also couldn’t deny that I was a vulnerable toddler, a three or four-year-old child who for some unknown reason preferred spending his nights in a park instead of the relative safety of home. A park that wasn’t really a park, but rather an overgrown field frequented by the homeless in a pretty dangerous part of the world. I needed to accept that anything could have happened to me as a toddler. Either with any of the men that we used to call family or wandering around the neighbourhood alone at night. And I’d have to forgive myself for falsely accusing my father of the most heinous of crimes. But I remain convinced that something did happen, which fortunately or unfortunately, remains hidden from my explicit memory.
TRYING TO UNDERSTAND
As an adult, I intellectually knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I wasn’t responsible for what happened when I was eight years old. Yet forty years later I still felt ashamed and somehow to blame. I was a member of an incredible fellowship that encouraged us to admit the exact nature of our wrongs to God, to ourselves, and to other
human beings. With Step Five, the other human would invariably be one’s sponsor. But it could be a therapist, a priest, or any other trusted individual. I’ve also heard some of the vilest war stories shared openly in meetings to burst of laughter, understanding nods, and hugs of acceptance. It’s not a favourite of mine, but I do understand that sharing about how it was and what happened is an important part of the acceptance process. As part of the Steps, I’d completed a written searching and fearless moral inventory of myself, and I’d shared my story with my sponsor. As suggested, I shared my written resentments and to the best of my ability, I examined my flaws. I’d even touched on the awful image that I’d recalled in my lunchtime meeting, but only because he already knew about it. But when he asked if there was anything I’d left out, I remained silent.
I’d read John Bradshaw’s book Healing the Shame That Binds You on toxic shame and I was learning to be a little more forgiving of myself. Then I went on to read and promote Every Parent’s Nightmare, written by fellow Capetonian Bruna Dessena, which in my opinion should be mandatory for every parent, teacher, or anyone working with children to read. Dessena’s book covers everything: how to recognize signs of sexual abuse and the grooming strategies of the abuser; how to address the problem, the legal processes, and how to prepare for court; and most importantly, how to support the child. At the same time, I started following different advocacy groups and coalitions against sexual assault in South Africa, the United States, Great Britain, and Australia. Then, in an attempt to wrap my head around the extent of the problem, I started reading every academic paper that I could find about the sexual abuse of children. What stood out for me was that advocacy centres estimate that 1:3 girls and 1:5 boys in the US are sexually abused before the age of 18, and every 9 minutes child protective services substantiate or find evidence for a claim of child sexual abuse. In a talk to The Royal Institution, Professor Dame Sue Black of the University of Dundee stated there are 124 cases per day, the equivalent of a medium-sized school of children being abused every week in the UK. And I couldn’t help but follow the cases of paedophilia against Jimmy Saville in the UK and the Gerry Sandusky case in the US. In both cases, I had to ask how people knew but did nothing about it.
Well, while society at large may not have wanted to talk about it I couldn’t shut up about what I’d been reading whether or not anyone was willing to hear what I had to say. But here’s the crazy: while I became incredibly vocal about the global plight of child victims of sexual abuse, I still couldn’t speak about my personal experience. I hadn’t even completely opened up in the confines of therapy with Kathy. And it wasn’t that I thought that my story was somehow worse than others. If I took away anything from what I’d been researching, it would be that sadly I was not alone.
DON’T THINK ABOUT IT
I was told not to think about it, to forget about it, and for most of my life that advice had actually worked. So, why now? And how is it all related? Or is it all related? And why is it that I still find it so damn hard to speak about? And when I do think about it I have to ask, am I dramatizing or minimizing what happened?
Shortly before my eighth birthday, we moved three blocks up the road into a home that my parents rented from my dad’s boss. We weren’t that far from our old house so we didn’t need to change schools, but it felt like a new neighbourhood and possibly a new beginning.
My parents were likely the best tenants that any landlord could wish for. They spent the first few months stripping away several layers of paint and redecorating. They sorted the plumbing, the electrics, the doors, and the window frames. Anything that needed attention they took care of on their own and out of their own pockets. The house was built on the slopes of Devil’s Peak with a precariously high roof. Unperturbed, my father – with one leg – dragged sheet after sheet of two-metre-long corrugated sheeting to fix the leaky roof. We had an uninterrupted view of the Cape Town harbour. I got to have my own room, which at night had a spectacular view of the surrounding suburban lights.
I made a couple of new friends. One was Brian, who lived next door. He had a wonderful back garden where we’d play outside forever. And even to my untrained eight-year-old eye, they were notably better off than us. They owned their home, and his father had his own contracting business with several trucks parked in their driveway at night. But we both got our first glimpse of apartheid’s separate development laws when our parents explained to us that we weren’t classified the same, so we wouldn’t be allowed to attend the same high school. Of course, none of this made any sense to either of us.
Then I’d also met Juno, who lived in the same street but a little further up the road. His family had converted a large upstairs balcony into a playroom for him. The playroom had its own couch, some bookshelves, and an urban mat. They had a few books, but most of the shelves were lined with toy cars and most of the floor was covered with a brilliant scale-electric racetrack. It must have taken them some time, but they’d finished the track with its own Start/Finish line, a grandstand with unit garages and pit lane, and a tree-lined embankment for additional spectators.
Juno had an older brother Emilio. Aged eighteen, Emilio was ten years my senior and an enthusiastic rugby player. We played soccer at the primary school I attended, and it didn’t offer rugby as a sport. So even though it was our national sport, I didn’t know a thing about the game.
At age eight, I was totally unaware of the ban which was about to be imposed on South African sports. It came about because of Basil D’Oliveira being left out of the South African cricket squad. As a South African coloured player, Basil was not eligible to play test cricket for South Africa. To pursue his career in cricket, he left for England where he ended up being selected to represent England for their 1968 tour of South Africa. But the tour was called off after the government, under the leadership of Prime Minister John Vorster, insisted that all visiting teams respect South Africa’s racial segregation laws. The next year’s 69-70 Springbok rugby tour of Great Britain was met by anti-apartheid campaigners calling themselves Stop the Seventy Tour. Many consider the Basil D’Oliveira affair to be the defining moment of South Africa’s sporting isolation.
Emilio was a pretty engaged older brother who kind of took it upon himself to toughen us pipsqueaks up. He’d take us to the triangular field created by the intersection of two highways and show us how the game of rugby was played. We’d run up and down, learning how to pass the ball to each other. Then he’d kick the ball for us to anticipate its unpredictable bounce and show us how to tackle another player by going in low. It was all new and exciting but of course, we were no match for him. He’d taunt us with ‘You two can’t tackle me!’ and we couldn’t. He’d simply continue running towards an imaginary try line, while the two of us tried to hang on. When at home, he’d almost always tease us into wrestling with him. ‘What’s your plan, going to push your little cars around all day?’ We’d happily engage, but it didn’t take much more than a pull of an arm or a shove to the chest to flatten us. We’d momentarily be freed, only to be twisted, turned, and pinned to another part of the urban rug. He taught us a combination of judo and wrestling moves that he liked to use, and he’d give us an opportunity to practice with each other. But it wouldn’t last long. Before long he’d have us both tied up in knots again. It was like having an older brother who for some reason seemed to favour me. At times I’d hear Juno say, ’Leave him alone. He’s my friend – not yours.’ Emilio would respond with a ‘What are you going to do about it? You’re both too weak, but I’ll still going to make a man out of you. Out of both of you.’ However, every time we played with Emilio, every toughen-you-up-be-a-man moment would without fail include a wandering hand that spent a lot of time targeting my genitals.
As a child, growing up in a mild Mediterranean climate, I don’t recall ever wearing anything other than a short-sleeve shirt and a pair of shorts. Occasionally, we’d be told to put on a jersey, but that was only because our parents were feeling cold. Then one day, I arrived before Juno had gotten home from school. Emilio invited me in and suggested I wait in the playroom. ‘You can play upstairs. Juno should have been home already, so he won’t be long.’ Emilio said. I don’t recall seeing him follow me, or any of the usual playful wrestling. But I clearly remember being pushed onto the couch and pinned down with a crushing forearm to my chest. Before I knew it, and long before I could possibly understand what he was doing, he had his head between my legs. I remember asking for my shorts, only to be told ‘Look, you’re enjoying this. I knew you would.’ I didn’t know what the hell he meant, but I’ll never forget the look on his face when he climaxed. I found my shorts that were still around my ankles the whole time as I got up to leave. Emilio, sounding rather pleased with himself, said ‘You’ll soon get to do that – I’ll show you.’
A few weeks later, after connecting with an evangelical Christian church, I’d end up spending puberty and my teenage years praying relentlessly for forgiveness. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll always be grateful for the unquestionable difference that the church made in my life. But then I also cannot deny that the church’s fundamental belief in abstinence, combined with the way that I already felt about myself, was possibly not the best solution for what I was dealing with. I spent my teenage years tormented by unwarranted guilt over my inability to remain celibate. With each failure, I’d visualize my newly cleansed snow-white heart disintegrating into a filthy workshop rag that should be discarded as trash.
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