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My Stolen Diaries — Chapter 28: Hiding in Plain Sight

Teri's Novelog — My Stolen Diaries,

CHAPTER 28

 HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT

 May 17, 1966

It’s been a rough few days, and I’ve been in terrible physical and mental pain. But there is a happy ending to the story I’m about to tell you.

It all started this past Saturday when I got a ride home from the roller rink. Mem dropped me off but couldn’t pick me up, so I hitched a ride with anyone I could find who had room in their car for me. This kid, Chris Santoro, who lives in Success Park and goes to St. Ambrose, asked his dad if he would drive me home, and he said yes.

Chris is the most popular boy in our grade and is dating Juliette, the most beautiful girl in school, so I was super excited to be in a car with him.

There were six of us, so we squeezed into the car as best we could — two kids in the front and four of us in the back. I was squashed against the right-hand side door.

We left Park City Skateland, which is on State Street, and as we speedily turned onto Park Avenue, my car door flew open, and I fell out, landing hard on my right side. I crawled on both knees toward the curb in excruciating pain — my entire body was convulsing in fear and panic because a car in the right lane barely missed hitting me.

I was wearing shorts and a sleeveless shirt, so my knees, legs, and elbows were covered in blood and dirt, and tiny pebbles were stuck deep into my skin.

Park Avenue is a busy two-lane street with tons of cars moving in the same direction. And then, on the other side, there are another two lanes going in the opposite direction with a grassy divider in the middle, separating the four lanes. So Chris’s dad had to drive past me on our side and then come back around from the other side to pick me up, which took him a while.

I sat on the sidewalk and held my knees close to my chest, rocking back and forth in shock and stabbing pain.

When Chris’s dad finally found me, he was non-stop apologizing and wouldn’t stop asking me if I was okay. I kept lying and saying “yes” because he was so scared and nervous and uncontrollably shaking like he was the one who fell out of the car.

Then he asked me if he should take me to the hospital, and I loudly yelled out, “NO,” and begged him to take me home.

As soon as I got to our apartment, I tortuously made my way upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom, fearing Mere Germaine would see me. Mom and Mem weren’t home, so I didn’t have to worry about them. Not yet, anyway.

I took my bloody clothes off and ran warm water in the bathtub while trying to pick out the grit and gravel from my skin. I took a look in the mirror, and lucky for me; I didn’t have any visible cuts on my face, knowing full well that this accident was something I needed to hide from my family. My mirrored image reflected such agony I almost didn’t recognize myself.

I opened the medicine cabinet, took out the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and poured it all over my cuts and scrapes. The pain was so bad I thought I might faint, so I didn’t get into the tub for a while.

Once I soaked in the tub, I grabbed a box of bandaids, covered my wounds as best I could, and scrubbed the sink and tub meticulously. Then I wadded up my ripped-up, blood-stained clothes and ran into my bedroom, where I put on long pants and a long-sleeved shirt.

I was still whimpering from the pain, but once I dressed, the only visible evidence of my accident were the cuts and scrapes on the palms of both hands, which I vowed to hide.

I tried to ignore the non-stop throbbing and took my wad of clothes outside and across Success Avenue, where I shoved them into the trash can in front of the supermarket. Then I hobbled back to the apartment and up the stairs to the bedroom, where I curled up in a ball on the bed and tried to calm myself down.

I’m not sure how long I was laying there, but at some point, Mere Germaine came into the room to ask if everything was all right. I told her I had a splitting headache, which wasn’t a lie.

When I heard Mem come home, I willed myself out of bed and agonizingly staggered downstairs. She asked me to help her unload the groceries out of the car, which I did without so much as a wince for fear she would notice my discomfort.

That night, I wore my long-sleeved flannel nightgown even though it was boiling in our bedroom. Mem kept spooning me, which caused excruciating pain, and I barely got a wink of sleep.

The next day, black and blues covered my swollen body, and I was sore from head to toe, but I was hopeful that nothing was broken.

Way more important than broken bones, though, was that I had to make sure that absolutely no one would ever know what happened to me — which meant I had to have a conversation with Chris Santoro ASAP.

Mem, Mom, and Mere Germaine went about their business for the rest of the weekend, and I went about mine. I felt a mixture of anger and fear.

I was angry that none of them noticed anything about the slow-going way I was limp-walking or the occasional involuntary moan when helping them with the chores.

But I was also afraid that if they found out that I fell out of a moving car, they would somehow blame me and find a way to be angry at me. Or worse, they wouldn’t allow me to go skating with my friends ever again.

I should be able to tell the women I love that I’m in pain, but I’m all mixed up. I’m overcome with doubt and fear, so I think the best thing I can do is heal myself as best I can and go it alone.

I can’t help but feel incredible despair and pity for myself because, as always, I’m unseen. Only I can see the scabs and scrapes all over me. My body is in excruciating pain, and so is my heart, but as usual, I am the only one who sees me.

I don’t want to tell my family that something happened to me. I want them to see that something happened to me for themselves.

Getting ready for school on Monday was tricky because my knees were a scabby, swollen mess. Luckily, between my uniform and knee socks, they were mostly covered.

I saw Chris right before the first bell rang, and he had a look of pure terror on his face. I tried to make him feel better, although it should have been the other way around.

“Don’t worry, Chris, I didn’t tell anyone what happened. And I don’t plan on it.” He was visibly relieved and told me he would catch up with me later.

As I shuffled my way home from school, Chris rode up to me on his bicycle and asked me if I wanted a ride. “The last time I took a ride from you, it didn’t work out so well,” I said, half joking.

I thought I was being funny, and I figured Chris would laugh, but instead, the terrified look on his face just about broke my heart.

“You okay?” I asked him, even though he should have been the one asking me if I was okay. And that’s when Chris told me that his dad was out of work and had been in a lot of trouble with the law recently.

I told Chris that I knew a thing or two about fathers getting into trouble with the law. And I asked him to make sure his friends in the car with us didn’t open their big mouths and tell anyone. Chris answered that they wouldn’t dare because they knew his dad would probably go to jail if they did.

I was confused. “Why would your dad go to jail? It wasn’t his fault I didn’t shut the car door all the way.” That’s when Chris told me that his dad had been drinking at a local bar before picking us up at the rink. “Both my parents are drunks,” he said matter-of-factly.

When I doubled down on my promise not to say a word to anyone about falling out of his dad’s car, he leaned over the handlebars of his bike and kissed me on my cheek. My very first kiss!

And today, Chris stopped by our apartment with a bag full of candy and told me that he owes me one and will forever be grateful to me.

When he asked to see some of my bruises, I pulled my pant leg up and showed him my right leg. He drew in a breath, grimaced, and then looked down at the floor, his voice so soft I barely heard what he said: “You’re pretty brave, you know?”

“Because I tumbled out of a speeding car and kept my mouth shut about it, kind of brave?”

His response was sweet. “Something like that.” Then, while still not making eye contact, Chris told me I was the toughest girl he’d ever met.

I’m sorry I had to nosedive out of a moving car for someone to finally see me. But I’ll take it.

Click here for Chapter 29: Naomi

My Stolen Diaries — Chapter 27: A Gift From Heaven

Teri's Novelog — My Stolen Diaries,

CHAPTER 27

 A GIFT FROM HEAVEN

April 3, 1966

As soon as I opened my eyes this morning, Mem was hovering close to my face from above, which scared the bejesus out of me. “Happy Birthday, Mon Petit Chou! You’re a teenager now!”

I think Mem was more excited about my birthday than I was. She made me fresh chocolate glazed doughnuts but said we couldn’t eat them until after church and that she also had a special birthday present she couldn’t wait for me to open.

I begged Mem to let me stay home and skip church just this one time, but she insisted I go, saying that I needed to receive the body of Christ and rejoice in God’s birthday blessing.

I doubted that God or His Son knew it was my birthday, but I vowed to go with Mem and Mere Germaine without any complaints. Mom was sound asleep, which I thought was terribly unfair. Mem never made her go to church because it always caused a hateful fight first thing in the morning of God’s day.

Before leaving for church, Mere Germaine asked me to play a song for her on Adam’s piano. I played Climb Every Mountain from the Sound of Music while she sat beside me on the piano stool and softly hummed. I played it at least three more times until Mom yelled from upstairs, “Enough with Climb Every Mountain, already! Is that the only song you know how to play? And oh, Happy Birthday, my little monkey.”

I wish Mom would call me her little angel or the love of her life like Mem calls me. But monkey? I yelled upstairs to Mom to find another pet name because calling me a little monkey made me fuming mad. She laughed and called me little monkey three more times before Mere Germaine ordered her to hush.

I told Mere Germaine that when I have a daughter, I would call her precious and sweetheart, but never a little monkey. Plus, I’m way taller than Mom, so she’s the little one.

Mere Germaine asked me two questions: “Would you rather she call you a big monkey? And what if you have a son?” I looked at Mere Germaine like she had three heads. “A son? How would that work?”

Then I proudly told Mere Germaine, “We’re all girls in this family, and that’s how it’s going to stay.” And she replied, “Then get ready to fight for her your entire life because it’s not easy raising a girl.”

After church and before doughnut time, Mem dragged a large, beautifully wrapped heavy box from the downstairs closet between the kitchen and the living room. The only thing in that closet is a folding chair where Mom sits while talking on the phone. It’s Mom’s favorite spot, so Mem leaves it empty to give her privacy.

I sat on the living room floor and carefully opened the box, saving the wrapping paper and bow for another time. My first impression was the tickle in my throat from the mustiness of the contents, followed by terrible disappointment when I realized that the box was full of old books.

I looked at Mem, puzzled and slightly annoyed. A bunch of old, smelly books? Really? Happy thirteenth birthday to me.

Mem hardly noticed my disappointment as she explained the books were leather classics Adam had asked her to pack up as a gift for me right before he passed.

She went on to say that Adam was impressed that I was reading my way through the library and wanted me to have his family’s treasured collection, but he died before he had the chance to give them to me himself.

Then she said that getting a gift from heaven is a blessing with a hidden message and was Adam’s way of speaking to me from above.

After her explanation, I didn’t have the heart to tell Mem that at thirteen, I was hoping for my very own record player and a couple of 45s.

Mem helped me pull the books from the box and place them on Adam’s long wooden dresser in our bedroom. Once they were all lined up, Mem went downstairs to fix us some birthday doughnuts.

I leaned against the dresser, ran my fingers across the colorful leather books, and decided maybe it wasn’t such a lame gift after all.

And sure, the books had a musty smell to them, but they also smelled of fine leather, which I liked.

Each book was soft to the touch and beautifully stitched. When I opened the deep purple book titled “Vanity Fair,” there was a black and white sketch of a young girl by the name of Jos flying through the air. I had a feeling I was going to like Jos.

I was immediately drawn to the pale blue cover of “The Portrait of a Lady” — especially the drawing of a beautiful young girl called Isabel — and then on to the emerald green book of “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” which was full of spectacular illustrations.

But for whatever reason, my hand stopped at a ruby-red book titled “Fathers & Sons” written by Ivan Turgenev. I pulled it out of the line-up and brought it downstairs with me.

As soon as Mom saw the title, she asked, “Please explain why you want to read a book about fathers and sons?” I answered her that maybe it was because I didn’t know any. Mom rolled her eyes in exasperation.

From the first moment I opened the book, it drew me in. I didn’t dare tell Mem that the book was about Russians because she thinks they’re all evil communists.

I think the hidden message Adam is trying to send me from heaven is that I might be poor, but I can never let that stop me from pursuing my dream of becoming a successful writer and maybe even a poet.

Mem works her fingers to the bone to give me a better life, but she can’t read or write, so I owe it to her to be great at both. Mem’s the one I need to honor. And Adam.

My lay teacher, Miss Pontiac, has often told me how impressed she is with my use of four and five-syllable words. She believes empathy and kindness should be taught, but can often be learned through reading.

She also pointed out that someone can be down and out, with seemingly nothing to live for because they have lost everything or never had anything to begin with, but they can never lose their knowledge.

When Miss Pontiac asked me if I had any questions about the power of books, I didn’t dare ask the number one question on my mind, which was, “Why do Catholic Schools call non-nuns lay teachers?”

I may not have gotten the record player I so desperately wanted, but even in death, Adam is working hard up there in heaven to smarten me up.

Click here for Chapter 28: Hiding in Plain Sight

Pro-Hamas Takeover at Cornell University

Politics

Students belonging to a pro-Palestinian coalition at Cornell University occupied two buildings on campus over the course of this past weekend, demanding, among other things, that the university revise its definition of antisemitism. I find it hard to believe that these well-educated students actually believe that anti-Zionism is not anti-Jews.

They proudly taped posters on the hallowed walls of Willard Straight, Cornell’s Student Union, which is supposed to be available to all students, that said, “From the river to the sea,” which, as Ivy League students, they know full well that the phrase calls for the genocidal elimination of the Jewish state. But their callous racist selves could care less.

The first thing I noticed when I walked into the stately 98-year-old building was the stench of rotting food and body odor.

The posters stunned and crushed my heart. But what hurt the most was that I noticed many people of a particular minority group that I truly believed cared about the Jews, primarily because the Jews always had their backs. But the only feeling I got as I walked around snapping photos was willful and ignorant hatred of everyone and everything Jewish.

I guess Jewish lives don’t matter.

Poster after poster, these occupiers displayed frightening and hateful words about Jews, with not one negative thing to say about Hamas.

Not one.

I can only come to one conclusion to explain their actions and lack of clarity: They are Pro-Hamas.

Moreover, free speech is a two-way street. And when does Free Speech cross over into Hate Speech? School administrators are responsible for protecting their students and should loudly and forcefully condemn and counter all hatred. But where are they?

F the IDF police? What about Hamas terrorists raping young girls to death? Gang rape is not resistance. It’s animalistic torture perpetrated by sick and twisted sexual deviants. Some of the women were raped so brutally that their pelvic bones were broken.

I guess the Me Too movement doesn’t apply to Jewish women.

The hate speech I saw scrawled on every piece of paper on those hallowed walls made me want to tear down the posters or, at the very least, yell out something in defense of Jews, but I forced myself to exercise restraint. Only because my husband asked me to.

The word “Intifada” constitutes the call for violence against Jews, and is associated with suicide bombings, and the wonton murder of innocent Jewish lives.

Violence and murder of Jews from Ithaca to Gaza? This is what you’re calling for?

Where was your outcry when innocent Palestinians were beheaded by Hamas because they were gay?

Where was your “intifada” outcry when more than 4,000 Palestinians were slaughtered by the Syrian regime forces?

Where were your posters when 39 health Centers were destroyed in Yemen by Saudi-led rebels?

And where were your Palestinian flags when the Russians targeted hospitals and schools in Syria killing scores of patients, medical staff, teachers, and young children?

I can only presume that when Arabs kill Arabs, including Palestinians, that’s okay with you.

Yesterday, when I checked the internet to see what Cornell was going to do about this outrageous takeover of a public building, I noticed that the coalition’s demand to protect academic speech in support of “Palestinian self-determination and criticizing the state of Israel” as described on the coalition’s Instagram story, was “100% met.”

It seems to me that Cornell has enabled and allowed anti-semites to shamefully, and yet successfully, exploit the schools’ commitment to free speech, cloaking their hateful and despicable propaganda in the guise of academic freedom.

My Stolen Diaries — Chapter 26: The Tony Show

Teri's Novelog — My Stolen Diaries,

CHAPTER 26

 THE TONY SHOW

 March 20, 1966

Well, I met Roberto’s family today, and let’s just say that the Tony show was full of drama.

His older sister refused to attend the Tony reveal, so as soon as we arrived, Roberto made a huge stink about Babs not showing up — loudly yelling at his mother and father and making quite a scene.

Mom was trying to calm him down, and I was awkwardly standing in the hallway with Mem and Mere Germaine, not knowing what to do. Mem had her hand on my shoulder, and Mere Germaine held me tightly at my waist so I felt safe and protected.

Roberto’s mom was nothing like I had imagined. Bella was a tiny little thing, her mouth perfectly lined with bright red lipstick, wearing way too much caked-on makeup, overly high heels, and white hair dramatically piled high on her head in an elaborate braided updo.

Between her hair and her sky-high shoes, she added at least four to five inches to her height. I was still way taller than her, although I made sure to pull my shoulders back and stand as straight as possible to loom over her even higher. I wanted her to have to look up at me.

After Roberto’s hysterical fit, Bella walked over to us and, without introducing herself, went into an uncomfortable speech about how the Russo family was against divorce, which is why Babs would not be coming.

Then, to make matters worse — while still in the hallway — Bella went on to say that the Russo family never knew any other Catholic whom the church excommunicated and that it would take quite some time for them to come to terms with all the associated issues.

I assumed that one of the “associated issues” was me.  I also assumed Roberto told Bella that Mom was excommunicated but not Mem — another lie.

Once Bella finally led us away from the front door, things got better — for Mem and Mere Germaine, anyway. The three of them had cooking in common, so, thank God, they had something to talk about besides me, divorce, and Mom’s excommunication.

I also met Roberto’s sister, Gia, who lives next door to Bella. She was loud and boisterous but hilarious and went out of her way to make me feel comfortable and accepted. Her daughter Patrice, who was incredibly beautiful, with her long, silky, straight chestnut brown hair and tiny nose, helped to relieve some of my anxiety with her kindness.

While Patrice and Gia helped to reduce my uneasiness, I couldn’t help but feel highly self-conscious because everyone kept staring at me.

Roberto’s father, Carlo, who was short and fat, barely spoke English, so he didn’t have much to say, although I thought his leering at me was creepy and uncalled for. When I mentioned it to Patrice, she told me not to take it personally, that “Poppy” leers at all the family girls. Ew.

At the end of the dinner, I was feeling a lot better about the Tony Show until Bella walked up to me and told me that whatever happens between Mom and her “only son,” I was to call her “Aunt Bella” and not Nonna like her grandchildren because our relationship would not be like that.

I’m not going to lie; even though I have no intention of calling her anything at this point, her words stung.

Before dessert, Patrice took me to the house next door to show me her room. She opened her bedroom window, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and offered me one.

I shook my head no, but she convinced me to take a few drags. The first two times I inhaled, I choked like crazy, but then I got used to it.

As we shared our second Marlboro, Patrice told me not to be bothered by anything Nonna had to say because “She’s always sticking her spiked-heel foot into her big red lipstick mouth.”

The two of us laughed, but I was thinking that in a million years, I would never say anything mean like that about Mem.

Then Patrice gave me some mouthwash to gargle with, followed by a long hug. I got a little misty-eyed and broke the awkward silence by saying, “I hope we can be good friends. I need someone in this family to like me.”

Patrice tenderly wiped the tear slipping down my left cheek. “Friends? Oh, Tony, we will be so much more than that, you’ll see.”

Then she lovingly wrapped her arm through my arm, laid her head on my shoulder, and together we walked back to “Aunt Bella’s” house.

Click here for Chapter 27: A Gift From Heaven