The Secret Lives of Hyapatia Lee Page 3
He was very receptive to my call! Lisa briefly explained that my mom was getting a divorce and that it was not convenient for her to keep me, with all the stresses she was going through. Iasked if I could come to visit for a while. Much to my amazement, he said “yes”. After I hung up, I cried tears of joy for a long time. I felt a small glimpse of what it must feel like to have a dad. I couldn’t wait to see him. There was a light at the end of my very long, dark, dank tunnel.
By the time I had saved enough money, it was close to the end of the school year. I had been a straight A student and I wasn’t about to blow my record by leaving without graduating from 8th grade. The day after school got out, I took my violin, nicknamed Casey, one small suitcase and my purse, and asked my mother for a ride to the airport. I told her that if she didn’t want to take me, I understood, I could hitch a ride.
She was very unemotional and matter-of-fact about the whole thing. She had time to take me. On the way, she asked where I would be staying, I told her about my dad. Charlene was with us and they exchanged glances. Not much else was said.
I wondered if she would just drop me off at the airport, but she didn’t, she went to the gate with me. I was reminded about the time Don left on a business trip and French kissed me good-by at the gate in front of my mom and everyone. I couldn’t wait to leave Florida. I didn’t even care if the plane crashed, as long as it wasn’t over Florida. When it came time to go, I boarded the airplane. There was no hug or kiss good-by, no request to be called to see if I made it O.K., not a word about when or if I was coming back, nothing.
Looking out the window of the plane, I felt no remorse as I left. I knew I would never be back. I did not care if I had not given my mother a hug or kiss good-by, but of course, it still hurt that she had not cared to give me one. I tried to cut off all my emotions and let it go as the plane went faster and faster down the runway, faster and faster running away. I took off, up, above and beyond the pain no one cared to listen to, believe, or help me with.
I was startled when a flight attendant asked me if that was a violin I was carrying. When I told her it was, she asked me if I would play some music! I didn’t think she was serious, not in front of the other passengers, but she was. I guess she must’veseen my distraught look or something and was trying to comfort me. It worked. I played.
BACK HOME
Life with my real dad was very different from anything I had ever been exposed to. His wife was a great mother to their three young children and they lived in a nice neighborhood. I began to think maybe this would be a good place to grow up. I missed my grandmother very much and would have preferred to live with her, but I didn’t really think that was possible. Whenever I spoke to her on the phone, she said she was in no position to keep me. Her finances were so desperate that she went out and got a second job, in addition to the drapery workroom. Because of that, she was working all the time and away from home every evening. She said it would be impossible for her to get me to school and pick me up each day, besides not being able to afford me. My father paid child support of $12.50 every week, barely enough to cover my lunch money. Getting that sent directly to her would make no difference.
My dad was a very active member in the local Southern Baptist church. Every Wednesday evening was Bible study and Sunday was spent almost entirely at the church from dawn till dusk. Cards were one of the Devil’s tool and women were not allowed to wear red. It was summer time and the church planned a trip to the local amusement park, Kings Island, but all girls were forbidden to wear shorts, no matter how hot it was. Of course, the boys could. I did not understand any of this new belief system.
God seemed like a good thing to me at the time. I had always believed there was one, even though no miraculous happenings had saved me from my many atrocities. I could not easily relate to a God that was male, however. A Heavenly Father to me just had more authority to molest and beat his daughters, especially if this particular view of God included the restriction of females in his little black book. I tried to understand the Southern Baptist doctrine and learn the Bible from their point of view. I truly did want to have a relationship with a Supreme Being.
Pastor Willis and his family would join us almost every week for dinner. During one of these times, I asked to speak with him alone. I had hoped he could help me to be closer to God, to feel his love and sanctity. I thought it would be impossible to explain to my step-mom and dad what had happened in Florida with Don. It was so painful to remember, but to tell someone who you think loves you and may be hurt by it too, was more than I was capable of. I had hoped Pastor Willis could tell them and then they would understand why I was so shy, so afraid to take a bath, so afraid of my father and other men. They had started to accuse me of being a troublemaker in Florida and assumed that my mother was fed up with my bad behavior and that is why I ended up here.
Many things I did were very rebellious. I was a 14 year old who had lived as an adult with adult problems and no support group for a long time. I had developed multiple personalities to help me deal with the many traumas I had lived through. How could I go back to being a normal 14 year old? I’d seen and done things my father and stepmother either thought happened only to other people, or didn’t really happen at all. I had no respect for authority figures because none of them listened or believed me when I needed them. I had learned that respect must be earned and is just not given to a parent or an elder as a birthright. They did not know what I had been through, how could they understand who I was? How could they possibly reach out to me and help me? They couldn’t. My only hope of bridging the gap was to somehow let them in on all the tragic secrets and hope they would understand what it all had done to me. If they were capable of understanding what experiencing these events as a child does to the human mind, then maybe they could get me some help psychologically.
The pastor and I went into the bedroom I shared with my half-sister, Prissy. He asked me what was troubling me. It was so hard to trust someone again with my pain, to hope they would believe me, understand me, and help me. I started slowly at first, recalling how my stepfather would rule the house with his fists, then I began to talk of the incest. I started to cry and as I did, my speech got faster and louder and more emotional. I was on a roll.
Pastor Willis reached his hand up to my lips, silencing me. He didn’t want to hear any more. I could tell it troubled him.
“Let us pray,” he said. “Great Father who watches down from us in heaven and knows all, forgive this child of her sins of the flesh.”
I never heard another word he said. He had judged me guilty of something I didn’t have any control over. He totally misunderstood me and I could not stay in the “here and now”. My mind was running wild with ideas of how this all related to my stepfather. The patriarchy of the church was reminiscent of the dictatorship I had lived under in Florida. My real father had given away his power to make up his own mind to a male authority figure that did all the thinking for him. I didn’t fit in here and they all knew it. No matter how hard any of us tried to shape shift, we would never fit the mold. I would never get the loving support and understanding that I needed to heal in this environment. I planned how I would find a way, some way, any way, no matter what, to move back in with my grandmother, the woman who was my true mother in my eyes.
Pastor Willis never mentioned what I had told him to my dad, or anyone else in the family, as far as I know. After they left and the dinner dishes were done and everyone had settled down for the night, I made sure the house was sound asleep. I crept quietly down to the basement where the telephone there was my only link to sanity. I called my grandmother. I told her I could not live here with these people. I explained the patriarchy of their church and how desperately I needed to be with her. I promised I would do any job I could get for money, buy my own clothes, walk the 19 plus blocks it was to the local school, eat very little, etc., so as not to be a burden.
I couldn’t hold back the tears and she knew there was something dreadf
ully wrong. I couldn’t tell her, it would have hurt her too much. She loved her daughter, and me, and to think of us being beaten and held hostage in our own homes, it would have broken her heart. I couldn’t do that to her, but she knew. She guessed something really bad had happened in Florida and she knew how much I needed her now. She promised me she would make it work. Now it was up to me to let my dad know.
It was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do in my life. I knew what I needed to help me heal my wounds, but I also knew I needed my father and a good male image. Deep inside it was obvious that going back to my grandmother was going to help me the most. I did not want to hurt my stepmother and father’s feelings. After all, they had been nice enough to open up their house and their lives to me, a complete stranger and intruder. They had done their best to make me happy and comfortable and I did feel accepted and loved there. It was such a tragic situation because I wasn’t capable of explaining to them exactly why I had to leave. I couldn’t tell them what had happened, I was afraid they would react like Pastor Willis. They were in his flock. I was even more terrified that if I told them, they wouldn’t believe me. I know it broke everyone’s heart when I left to go live with my grandmother. I doubt if they will ever forgive me, but I could see no other way. I felt like I had thrown away any hope of ever having a relationship with my father.
My grandmother’s neighborhood is on the near west side of Indianapolis in a section known as Haughville. When my grandmother first got married and moved there with her husband theirs was the only house visible in the area. Many years later, the neighborhood is notorious. Known for high crime, drug houses and the location of many government-subsidized housing editions, it is home to a varied and colorful section of the population. The schools on this side of town had lower academic standards than most, and there were gangs and violence in the halls. My grandmother had witnessed the demise of the area over two generations.
For the rest of the summer, we spent our days in courthouses, getting the proper guardianship papers that would allow me to stay here. My mother in Florida had to sign things and send them; they were always slow and never came with a note or thread of hope for love. I did not speak to her over the phone at all during this time. My grandmother simply got the necessary information from her. My father’s meager child support was sent to Florida first, and then forwarded on to us. I’d like to take this opportunity to let you know, just for therecord, he was never in his life late with this money, even though it was only $12.50 a week.
I went with my grandmother to the flower shop where she worked and felt safer that way. It was so good to be back at home with her. I once wondered if I’d ever live to see her again, and here I was living with her. I was so thankful. I knew there was a God. We talked, watched TV together, read romance novels, played card games, and, of course, went to Atchie and George’s house. It was just like old times, even though some major things could never be like they once were, like, my virginal childhood.
When school started, reality once again set in. I learned in the first week that girls could not wear dresses or skirts to school without expecting to get it lifted and their panties felt on the stairs. Kids who raise their hand and know the answers are threatened in the halls. Bathrooms are filled with smoke, mostly from pot. During my stay there over the years, I would encounter a teacher stabbing, gunshots heard from the hall during class, and a librarian beaten so severely with a baseball bat by students, that he is blinded in one eye. Yet, with the strength of a lion, he returns to work!
Getting to and from school was another problem. There were no busses, save the city bus. I had quite a long walk to school. Indiana winters are bitterly cold, sometimes with temperatures reaching 22 degrees below zero actual, and 40 below wind chill. Such was the blizzard of ‘78. The land I walked on the way to school was covered with porno movie houses, old homes that had been renovated into churches, pool halls and two housing projects. Almost every day I would find my mind back in Florida, remembering that feeling of impending doom. I knew that any minute, some guy would come out from behind something and rape me.
The city buses did not run anywhere near my home and it was actually closer to walk than to go to the bus stop. My grandmother had rearranged her schedule so that she could take me to school in the morning, but I would have to walk home in the afternoon. It was the best we could do, and I was happy to be able to be there, no matter what, but school was uncomfortable for me because I did not feel safe. There was racial tension as our ratio was 60% black, 40% white. I wondered where I, a Native American Indian, fit in.
I decided to take summer school in order to graduate sooner, but also because I could take driver’s education and get my driver’s license sooner. I was a straight A student and I knew if I played my cards right I could get my credits and get out in 3 years easily. In the evenings, I worked in the flower shop with my grandmother and helped her with the hand stitching necessary for her draperies. For this I was paid and I saved what was left after buying my clothes, for a car.
Once I had my car, I took my classes all in the morning so I could go home for lunch and then on to work. I held jobs working in the mall at various stores, telephone soliciting, and in the box office of a dinner theater. I also typed original scripts for the theater owner and Indy’s favorite resident playwright, Randy Galvin. I got the job because I had been active on his stage in shows like GODSPELL, THE FANTASTICKS, LOVE STRUCK, TOP BUNK, CENTERFOLD, KISS ME KATE and many others. There were other theaters I had become a fixture at too, like the one I had done the musical TWELVE DANCING PRINCESSES at so long ago, Footlight Musicals at the Booth Tarkington Civic Theater. I met a wonderful director named Jim Schroom at the Indianapolis Civic Theater and found myself performing in something from one of these theaters, literally, every weekend of the year. I went from show to audition to rehearsal, usually working on two or three productions at once. It was a marvelous time of my life and I had many friends and learned a tremendous amount about life, acting, the stage, and myself. My grandmother was usually busy with work at the flower shop until 10:00 at night or so and the shows gave me something to do while she was gone, besides being something I really loved. I got to dance, sing, act, and choreograph. I even had a room I rented out from Randy Galvin in his Showcase Theater that I used to teach dance in.
On weekends my grandmother and I sometimes attended the meetings at the Native American Brotherhood Council. These were gatherings of people from all tribes and mixes who wantedto learn more about their heritage and culture. We did little arts and crafts projects like making dream catchers, and learned traditional stories and history. It was a wonderful bonding time and it really revived my interest in a culture I had been embarrassed to claim.
Jim Schroom was Chippewa and he had two sons, one of which I worked with in a play called LITTLE MARY SUNSHINE. As I got to know him, I really liked him. One day, he asked me to go to his prom with him. I was so happy!!! I didn’t have a dress, so we got one from Good Will and my grandmother helped me clean it up. It was beautiful peach chiffon and I felt so happy. It was the only prom I ever went to, and the amazing thing was that it was at the school I would have attended if my stepfather had not moved us all to Florida.
Jim Schroon also tried to help me get an acting scholarship to Loyola University in Chicago. He worked with me day after day on a monologue from OUR TOWN and went with me to audition. I actually got the scholarship, only to have it taken away because the football team needed more members so they took a scholarship from the drama department to give it to athletics. We were heartbroken.
I had great grades, but the education I was exposed to wasn’t the best and I didn’t do such a great job on my SAT’s, although I graduated 11th in my class. I had been told I was eligible for a scholastic scholarship, but when I applied, I filled out the application literally. They asked how many children in my family, I said one. They sent me a letter saying that since my mom and dad had only one child, I was not eligible. The way they saw i
t, my parents were together with an only child and they could find the money for this one child’s college. I guess I should’ve counted my stepbrothers and sister, and then it would have said I had four siblings. No one explained it to me at the time, and I didn’t want to lie.
It is so easy for someone to fall through all the cracks of our societies protective net, so easy for the police and school officials to turn the other way when confronted with a difficult situation. It is so easy to not get involved. It had been my experience in the real world that most people do not know or want to know that these things happen so often. People are afraid to hear that they happen to the innocent and the young and that justice is not served. It scares them to think that it is possible to be a good person, say your prayers, do all the right things, and then still have something bad happen to you. It kind of shakes their belief system and makes them question their God. It’s a shame that all of this gets in the way of helping the people who, through no fault of their own, find themselves without basic necessities that everyone else takes for granted.
My father has often told me in more recent years he is proud to say he has put all his kids through college. Obviously, he must not consider me his child.
I wanted to be an actress. I planned to go to New York and try to make it on Broadway. I had my portfolio and was still adding to it as I tried to save up money for this goal. I was working at the Black Curtain five days a week and rehearsing or performing there seven nights a week. It seemed like the smart thing to do to move into an apartment that Randy had next door. The price was cheap and it was so close to work. I thought I could move out and be on my own and stop burdening my grandmother. She helped me fix the place up. I was seventeen.