Learning of my father’s death – four years after the fact and 40 years after I last saw him – was not exactly a heart-wrenching moment, but it did lead to a flood of childhood memories.
I was a very introverted child, and though I enjoyed the adventure of visiting another country, I felt alone much of the time that I lived in Venezuela. My father was distant, involved with his work and baseball (baseball is big in Venezuela). My stepmother didn’t seem to fully accept me, and I missed my mother and my brothers, Cliff and Kyle, back in Florida. More often than not, I sat alone during lunch and recess at St. George’s School. I didn’t feel that I fit in. There was a mix of students – some native Venezuelan, others from England, Yugoslavia, Egypt and various other places – no doubt the children of transplanted workers in various industries. (My own father was an electrical engineer with dual citizenship). That's me in the photo, third from the right. Some of the teachers at the British private school were cruel, especially to the quiet students like me…
I enjoyed reading from an early age, but the thought of reading out loud in class was unbearable. When the teacher called on me, I froze. Since I was unable – or, to her, unwilling – to read the passage that she asked of me, she ordered me to the front of the class. There, she took hold of my jaw and jerked my head back, holding me in a tight, uncomfortable grasp. I didn’t know what to do. If I had been more self-assured like Colin, a rambunctious student from England, I likely would have kicked her in both shins and run out the door. But I stood there squirming as another student was called on to read…
It’s not clear to me how long it was after this incident that I flew back home to the states, because my memory was fuzzy for a long time. My mother called my father and asked what he had done to me. I was not speaking, and she was anxious to know what had happened. She even investigated the airlines. I couldn’t tell her why I wasn’t able to speak, because I had wiped away the memory of the awful humiliation of that day in class. I had crawled into a shell, probably during the flight home across the Caribbean, as a way to cope with something that I had no way of dealing with emotionally.
Over the years, my mother took me to see psychiatrists and therapists, and there were drug treatments and evaluations. A therapist once told my mother that I would never speak again. Overhearing this, I must have resigned myself to this “truth.”
I graduated high school and attended college for a couple of years, but dropped out with no clear sense of direction. I worked at various menial jobs, endured a marriage that seemed to be doomed from the start, and was basically limited in my career and personal growth by the inability to speak.
I had become a Christian in my late 20s, but struggled with my new faith. One day the memory of what the reading teacher had done suddenly returned, giving me renewed hope that, since my handicap was not from a physical cause, maybe I would be able to speak again. I was referred to a counselor at a private school, who patiently read my written reply to her questions about my life. She prayed for me and then told me to thank the Lord for what He had already done, and the words “Thank you, Jesus” seemed to come from somewhere deep inside me. From that moment, even though my vocal cords were “rusty” and it was difficult to string words together into sentences, I was able to communicate without having to rely on pen and paper. I was 29, and hadn’t spoken in 19 years...
My newfound voice, and the confidence that came with it, were among several factors that drove me and my first wife apart. A few months later I met Debbie. As each of us was recovering from a failed marriage, we had a mutual desire to make things work. It has been a struggle, but we’ve made it for 20 years. We have encountered serious health problems, lost a home and endured an often strained relationship with our only daughter through her teen years. But as the saying goes, “Whatever doesn’t kill you will make you stronger.” We’re closer to our daughter than we’ve ever been, and looking forward to meeting our first grandchild. Life can be difficult, but God is good.
While working in a book warehouse, I injured my back several times... my wrist, my hip, my shoulder... you name it, I hurt it. A fellow worker told me I should go back to school and begin a new career. Through faith and a strong desire to succeed, I struggled through three years of full-time work and full-time school, finally walking across the stage at Milligan College to claim my Bachelor degree at the age of 49. I was proud!
See pages 22-23:
http://www.milligan.edu/news/MCmagazine/milliganmagazine_su08.pdf
I was a very introverted child, and though I enjoyed the adventure of visiting another country, I felt alone much of the time that I lived in Venezuela. My father was distant, involved with his work and baseball (baseball is big in Venezuela). My stepmother didn’t seem to fully accept me, and I missed my mother and my brothers, Cliff and Kyle, back in Florida. More often than not, I sat alone during lunch and recess at St. George’s School. I didn’t feel that I fit in. There was a mix of students – some native Venezuelan, others from England, Yugoslavia, Egypt and various other places – no doubt the children of transplanted workers in various industries. (My own father was an electrical engineer with dual citizenship). That's me in the photo, third from the right. Some of the teachers at the British private school were cruel, especially to the quiet students like me…
I enjoyed reading from an early age, but the thought of reading out loud in class was unbearable. When the teacher called on me, I froze. Since I was unable – or, to her, unwilling – to read the passage that she asked of me, she ordered me to the front of the class. There, she took hold of my jaw and jerked my head back, holding me in a tight, uncomfortable grasp. I didn’t know what to do. If I had been more self-assured like Colin, a rambunctious student from England, I likely would have kicked her in both shins and run out the door. But I stood there squirming as another student was called on to read…
It’s not clear to me how long it was after this incident that I flew back home to the states, because my memory was fuzzy for a long time. My mother called my father and asked what he had done to me. I was not speaking, and she was anxious to know what had happened. She even investigated the airlines. I couldn’t tell her why I wasn’t able to speak, because I had wiped away the memory of the awful humiliation of that day in class. I had crawled into a shell, probably during the flight home across the Caribbean, as a way to cope with something that I had no way of dealing with emotionally.
Over the years, my mother took me to see psychiatrists and therapists, and there were drug treatments and evaluations. A therapist once told my mother that I would never speak again. Overhearing this, I must have resigned myself to this “truth.”
I graduated high school and attended college for a couple of years, but dropped out with no clear sense of direction. I worked at various menial jobs, endured a marriage that seemed to be doomed from the start, and was basically limited in my career and personal growth by the inability to speak.
I had become a Christian in my late 20s, but struggled with my new faith. One day the memory of what the reading teacher had done suddenly returned, giving me renewed hope that, since my handicap was not from a physical cause, maybe I would be able to speak again. I was referred to a counselor at a private school, who patiently read my written reply to her questions about my life. She prayed for me and then told me to thank the Lord for what He had already done, and the words “Thank you, Jesus” seemed to come from somewhere deep inside me. From that moment, even though my vocal cords were “rusty” and it was difficult to string words together into sentences, I was able to communicate without having to rely on pen and paper. I was 29, and hadn’t spoken in 19 years...
My newfound voice, and the confidence that came with it, were among several factors that drove me and my first wife apart. A few months later I met Debbie. As each of us was recovering from a failed marriage, we had a mutual desire to make things work. It has been a struggle, but we’ve made it for 20 years. We have encountered serious health problems, lost a home and endured an often strained relationship with our only daughter through her teen years. But as the saying goes, “Whatever doesn’t kill you will make you stronger.” We’re closer to our daughter than we’ve ever been, and looking forward to meeting our first grandchild. Life can be difficult, but God is good.
While working in a book warehouse, I injured my back several times... my wrist, my hip, my shoulder... you name it, I hurt it. A fellow worker told me I should go back to school and begin a new career. Through faith and a strong desire to succeed, I struggled through three years of full-time work and full-time school, finally walking across the stage at Milligan College to claim my Bachelor degree at the age of 49. I was proud!
See pages 22-23:
http://www.milligan.edu/news/MCmagazine/milliganmagazine_su08.pdf
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