The aroma of fresh cut grass, birds chirping and the angelic sun poking its beaming kisser through our curtains awaken us with a desire to live life abundantly. This is the weather we wait for every winter, when we delight in dancing outside. The Pacific Northwest people subsequently come out of hibernation and the attitude in the community seems elated. The beauty that this area claims is breath-taking; love at first sight. The mountains to the East are nothing short of majestic and the sound possessing the San Juan Islands to the West are impressively spectacular. The summers never last long enough in Washington and this means taking every advantage possible of what it offers. While most were enjoying these luxuries, this year was an abnormal adventure for me.
It is the summer of 1997 in my modest home town of Lynden, Washington. I am 16 years old and approaching my junior year of high school. It is another warm night in August and I advance the house in the pitch-black. The grass in the yard comes to my waist and as I trudge through it I ignore my fears with mental distraction. I stumble through the lawn in search of an entrance. While most homes in the area were equipped with alarm systems, this one did not so much as include a lock. There is no electricity; no heat, no lights and no running water. The roof is caved in, but fortunately only affecting the top floor. The house and I share something in common, both rejected, left without concern.
As I near the back door, I brave my nightmare and make way into the abandoned home. I have been staying here for a month now and it has become commonplace. Sleeping in these conditions is definitely unsanitary; the mattress was left from former residents and the spiders or anything else that wanders in it is nearly horrifying. Nonetheless, to me it is almost luxurious and comforting. I found a place to call mine, somewhere I could count on laying my head. Before I discovered this house, I was always uncertain of where I could sleep that night. The anxiety and embarrassment of having to ask friends on a continual basis is more than enough to ruin my peer acceptance. I find my way to the mattress; it is empty and I fall sleep.
“You are under arrest” a women’s voice announces.
What is someone doing here so early in the morning I thought? I can’t make out what she is saying as I am still in a dreamlike state, but the tone is harsh.
“Get up and pack your stuff, you are under arrest for trespassing” she announces once again.
As I attempt to slowly open my eyes I notice that familiar blue uniform standing at the edge of the room. She stands; with all the arrogance a female can cultivate and directs me to get up. This isn’t the first charge I have received for being in this house, but it would be the last. As I gather my stuff I realize I am more annoyed that I didn’t get to finish my sleep than getting another charge. I don’t know what other choices I have but to stay here. Our town does not offer resources for people like me. Sometimes life can seem unfair, like everyone is against you. I don’t have anywhere to turn and each place I do seems to be the wrong path. She puts the handcuffs on me and took me to the car.
We drive to the police station on the other side of town.
“I am going to have to search through your bags” The officer tells me.
She searches through my bags and finds a couple smoking pipes. One pipe my grandfather had given me. The other, I used to smoke marijuana.
“Well, look what we have here” she said “these will cost you a paraphernalia possession charge.”
She seems a little too excited for this discovery. She leaves to another room and returns a few minutes later.
“Out of the kindness in my heart, I am going to do you a favor; I am not going to take you to jail” she informs me. “I am going to take you to your parent’s house and I expect that you stay out of trouble.”
Later I find out the jail did not have room for such petty charges and it nothing to do with the kindness in any heart. Although, I think jail would have been safer than home.
She proceeds to drive me to my parent’s house.
I thought this should be interesting; the last couple times the authorities brought me here, my mother told them to take me somewhere else. She had never really wanted me around, from as far as I can remember, and I ended up on the streets from normal teenage misbehavior. She must have been in a good mood, because this time she let me in.
My mother was only 18 when she gave birth to me and according to her, I ruined her life. She let me know it constantly. From birth on out, it seemed that I could do no good. I was an honor roll student, submissive and cleaned the house regularly for her. Nothing could gain her approval or affection. When I did well, she was jealous. When I did wrong she told me I destroyed the family. As far as I can remember; I never received a hug or heard the words “I love you.” She would often let me know how much she hated me and how I crushed her life. It seemed they were always looking for a good excuse to get rid of me and each time I misbehaved was a good enough reason.
The police officer took me to the house and dismisses me here. The fears drove up in me and nothing made me more afraid than my mother’s wrath. She had a way of looking at me that seem to make my soul burn, to make everything in me rise up and run for safety. Ironically, parents and home is where you allegedly go for safety.
My mother brought me into the bedroom nearest the front door. She sat me down next to her on the bed. She is wearing a white pajama top and blue cotton pants. She is a large woman and she often walked around all day in only this top. Normally, she did not wear a bra or pants with this shirt even though it was quite see through. It was embarrassing when friends would come to visit and she refused to change demanding it was her house. This time though she had been decent enough to cover herself, assumingly because the police were there. Her hair is fried blonde and the look in her eyes is fierce.
“You are such a stupid, no good, waste of space” she says “I hate you and wish you were never born!”
She continues to call me every foul name she knows and makes me feel worse about who I am than anyone ever has or could.
The anger and hurt rise up in me and I want to scream back at her. I am completely infuriated. I don’t know whether to scream, run or cry. I don’t scream, but I cry. I am staring at a small doll on the ground that belongs to my little sister. The yelling and put downs continue. I pick up the little doll and throw it at her leg. I run out of the house crying so hard I can barely catch a breath. I feel so alone, so unwanted and unloved. I have no one to turn to. I am hysterical; I do not know what to do anymore.
Soon after running outside, my mother follows me.
“I’m so sorry Joanna” she states apologetically “I should not have said those horrible things, will you please forgive me?”
I thought this is weird; my mother does not admit fault and seldom apologizes. Nevertheless, I accept it and forgive her immediately. I am relieved and grateful.
“I want you to go to church with your father” she proceeds to tell me.
They were leaving for church in a few minutes. I hurry to get ready and leave with my family. My mother stays home alone.
After a couple hours we return from service.
“I have a surprise for you!” my mother cheers in a joyful and excited manner.
“A surprise?” I contemplate; this seems very odd, why would she be giving me a surprise?
I become hopeful that my mother has decided to attempt a new disposition. I am enthusiastic about this surprise. Maybe she knew it was time to try a new road and possibly rebuild a relationship. Maybe she feels so bad about everything that’s happened. What could it possibly be?
Not more than 5 minutes later, the same police officer shows up at the door. My heart is crushed. I am vulnerable, paralyzed and powerless. This is my surprise? What have I done? Once again I feel helpless.
“You are under arrest for assault” the officer tells me “this time you will be going to jail.”
She proceeds to put the handcuffs on me and take me out to the car.
“Assault…jail?” I question her “what did I do, I don’t understand what is going on?”
“The object you threw at your mother caused a large bruise and cut” she explains.
I was baffled. How could that little plastic doll have caused a cut or bruise? She didn’t complain of any pain before I left. I don’t understand but I accept it and am sent to juvenile hall.
I spend 3 days in the cell because it is Labor Day weekend and the courts are not open. While in here, I consider the events that took place. They still do not make sense to me. How did I possibly cause that much harm? I start putting all the pieces together and it all starts to make sense.
She had harmed and cut herself to have me sent away and to create herself as a victim.
