“I just read about a former Miss America, Marilyn Van Der Somebody, who told a terrible family secret,” the waitress says to me.
My eyes widen as the partial name clicks instantly. “Do you mean Marilyn Van Derbur? Our Miss America in 1958?
“Yes, I think so. Her father was a pillar of the community, loved by everyone? And then, after he died, she told how he’d sexually abused her for years.”
I stare at her. “Yes. by telling her own story, she opened the door for thousands of abuse survivors to come forward and break their silence.” And then I add, as an afterthought, “I write about her secret in my book.” My mind slips back nearly three decades. I see myself sitting alone late one evening, listening to the stunningly beautiful Van Derbur on my television reveal her story. And I wonder why I can’t stop crying as she speaks.
The waitress continues. “I’m a retired career service woman. You know, today, when I hear people telling their Me, Too stories, I think, “So, how do I choose which story to tell, if I’m going to tell?”
I’ve known this woman for less than five minutes. How can she possibly understand how dumbstruck I feel by this traumatic connection she’s unwittingly opened out of seemingly nowhere? Consequently, I mumble something like, “Oh, gosh, the military environment. I’m sorry…. ”
“Now don’t get me wrong,” she continues. “Most military people are wonderful; it’s just the ones that aren’t, aren’t.”
“I know,” I say, wanting to touch her arm in a gesture of connection. Instead, I remain frozen inside, wondering how on earth this conversation has happened. Where did it come from? While the truth is that I did experience debilitating childhood trauma, do I have a sign or symbol somewhere on my person that people like me can see or recognize or sense?
And later I wonder why, when I told the waitress I’ve written about Van Derbur in my book, did I not also say, “I am a survivor, too, and I’ve written my story.” Surely, those few words would have clearly opened our connection. Perhaps I was completely caught off guard. Yet my deeper suspicion is about the secrecy so carefully and painfully taught to my young self. What follows is a flash of frustration: will the old taboo of silence always lurk in the shadows of my mind and surface at unexpected times? Will it never go completely away?
It has taken years to break through the thick tangled labyrinth of lies, deceit, manipulation, and false beliefs about myself. Then more years of writing and the therapeutic benefits that healing act brings. Next month my book will be published. Now it is my turn. I don’t want to be caught by surprise again. And so, I’ll speak as Marilyn Van Derbur and many others spoke to me decades ago. Lastly, I will hopefully miss no more opportunities to talk with my fellow traumatized brothers and sisters.
*
If you violate your children, they may not speak today, but as we gather our strength and stand beside them, they will one day speak your name. They will speak every . . . single . . . name.
~ Marilyn Van Durber, 1990, in a talk with abuse survivors
Mary Jo Doig is the author of Patchwork: A Memoir of Love and Loss.
Good for you! YAAA! I just watched a documentary on Bill Cosby so hopefully there is more courage cropping up to bring the huge problem of abuse in the open. Also a program on the continuing scandals being made known in the Catholic Church. And yes, the Miss America one. How long will it be that the victim feels the shame, not the ones doing the damage?
Thank you, Carol. Your last sentence cuts to the core of the problem I discovered I had not yet completely shed. The final challenge, I guess and hope. As for the Catholic Church, I do feel this pope is really trying to tackle this incredible problem. And as I opened your note, I just read breaking news that Brett Kavanaugh’s accuser has identified herself and is coming forward. How incredibly courageous is that? I’m one small person, but I’m adding my voice to the others who are speaking the names, as Van Derbur said decades ago would happen. I’m glad she has lived to be present in this moment.
You are smart, you are brave, and you have impacted the world. And I love you.
Jeanne, thank you. You cannot imagine how much support like yours means to me — or, in truth, to any woman who finally speaks her truth. I love you back.
I suspect, Mary Jo, that your freedom will come after your book is published. At least that was my experience. Once all the same I lived with for so many years was out in the open, I was free. I wish that for you. This post is so powerful, I’m including parts of it in the blog I will post this week. I’m also providing links to your blog and Amazon page for your memoir. Looking forward to reading it. I applaud you for your courage.
That was supposed to say “all the shame I lived with …” Fingers moving too fast.
Linda, I’m so grateful we are writing sisters and can help each other. What you say I didn’t know and since you walked this path before me, you know the relief you have given me. Much gratitude, Mary Jo
As I read your post, tears formed, for so many reasons. But what then emerged was thinking of my own childhood and how blessed I was that my mother removed us from the probable injury my father would have inflicted on my sister and myself had she not divorced him. Instead, I grew up in my maternal grandmother’s home in CT and she became my best friend and mentor until I was 15, when she died. But for all who suffered so in childhood, my heart just hurts so much. Can’t wait for your book, Mary Jo! It’s spectacular, I know.
Thank you, Rita. I’ve always loved that your mom made a good decision for you and your sister, and that your grandmother was such a nurturing influence in your life.
The one question I could never ask my mother was why she didn’t know what was happening in our house? After she died, I did some research and found a theory that seemed to fit our situation. I accepted it and have let the question go. I’m honored that you’ve visited.