The Cold World
I soon learned to adapt in this hateful, cold world where nobody cared about children or how they lived. Being passed back and forth like a Frisbee from one home to another. I envied other kids' lives and was always jealous of them. You would think being born into the LDS faith would have made a difference, but you would be wrong. It always angered me when the topic of families came up; that we should always honor and obey our parents no matter the circumstances. I would stand up and growl protesting. "Have you ever met my parents? Have you seen what they have done to me?"
Sometimes I would get up and leave the room just to escape them altogether. And when I got home, my father would take off his belt and chase me down to my room. I'd scream as his belt struck against my body; stripping the very flesh off me as he used me as a punching bag; his fists going to work. Only to turn around as my mother brought the wooden spoon or the metal pancake turner to finish the job.
I was always good at breaking my mother's wooden spoons, but the beatings would never stop. I remember one time my father grabbing my arm so tightly as he tossed me into a wall and breaking my arm in two places. The hospital wrote it up as a bike injury. The only problem with that is, was that I didn't have a bike unlike every seven-year-old boy riding in the neighborhood.
During the summer heat I was afraid to go swimming or take my shirt off in public because of all the bruises and even bathe, I was so afraid of anyone seeing me or any part of me it was a battle to get me to remove my clothes, I even wore my shoes and socks to bed. Even when I went out in public, I kept my self-covered up like an Eskimo year-round and hid in the corners just so people could not see me, and that included my face. My parents would punish me if they saw any part of my flesh, which made me feel embarrassed and immoral. It took years before I was able to feel comfortable without my Eskimo suit, as I bounced from home to home. My parents would beat me having me revert to hiding myself.
Smiling too became difficult after having my two front teeth and three of the bottom ones knocked out by my father's fist. Sometimes I'd eat mashed food because of it. The LDS church may frown upon abuse, but they never stopped it. All it did was make matters worse when they sent my parents in for family counseling. Only to end up with more beatings when they got home for embarrassing them. Not even my own relatives other than my grandmother and very select few at best. Not even my fathers older brother or his wife stopped it. Instead, they ignored it thinking everything was fine, but knowing perfectly well it wasn't as they all chose to distance themselves from it, like the rest of his family. Not wanting to get involved, yes, for them it was better to ignore that it was happening.
My Grandmother distanced herself when my grandfather passed away. But she did send in the authorities when she found out about what had happened after seeing my missing teeth and a broken arm. Once again, I found myself placed in another foster home. I was healing nicely and was in a good home this time around. Thriving with good grades and being happy was a mistake I made. My parents seemed to improve with counseling, so once again they decided to send me home. The LDS church seemed to help them and keeping better tabs on what was going on in the home. Looked good until my father changed jobs as a floor salesman in a sporting goods store named Zink's I believe at the Orem Mall at the time, which is no longer in business, having us to move again.
We had just moved into a better house in Provo, Utah. I remember because I had just turned eight my grandmother, and the church were pushing me to be baptized. But I refused to let my father touch me or baptize me. The thoughts of me drowning by his hands would be enough to scare any child my age. People tried to sway me, but I wouldn't allow him to do it regardless of if there was an audience watching. It embarrassed him that I wouldn't let him and ended up with another beating, regardless. I ended up being baptized by complete strangers and confirmed as he and my mother watched in the audience.
Things seemed to worsen after my mother had a nervous breakdown. This was unlike any fit she'd had before; this time it was in public. She had it after beating my brother and me in a clothing store, because we had to pick out school clothes that weren't secondhand. She received the money from the bishop of the church himself. It embarrassed her to no end, and so she sat down in the middle of the store crying in a fit of rage.
Family services were having a challenging time finding a home for me, not only because of my age and hyperactivity, which most people called the (Getting Bored Quickly Syndrome,) but I suffered from night terrors and was a known runaway. A runaway is a runaway regardless of the reasons. Not to mention the problems I had always being covered up, and the battle it would take to bathe me, or remove a single article of clothing. Even more so after a home visit or sent back to my parents to live. Only to be put back into the system anywhere from three to six months. They considered me a problem child, and nobody wanted to deal with it. They easily placed my brother in a home, which was his first but wouldn't be his last, while my sisters went to live with my aunts.
Throughout the years, Aaron has expressed his desire for my parents to have given him up for adoption when the opportunities arose. Which happened twice during his childhood years and was of course denied by my parents. I also wanted the same thing, but because of all my problems, no one wanted me, and it would be years before I got the chance, unlike my brother who everyone wanted except my parents or relatives. I had always blamed myself over the years when I wasn't home to protect him from my parents or given the chance to take the beatings for him, and most likely will do so until my dying day.
When I was only nine, they sent me to the State Hospital in Provo, Utah in the children's ward. A prison for unwanted children where they would lock them up behind metal doors to keep them from escaping as they called it; 'treatment by stabilizing difficult children and runaways.' I remember the cold and the bars on the windows. It smelled of rancid, urine, a smell I will never forget. When I went outside for some fresh air and sunshine and to play on good days, you could see the guards patrolling the chain link fencing with stun rods at their side. I saw a boy once get stunned with one of those and ended up in intensive care. He did it for a dare, a stupid dare, and they made an example out of him for the rest of us.
They had two rooms where they would confine you when you got into trouble, no matter how slight. Like causing a food fight, a fight with another child, mouthing off, or worse; if you tried to run away and when caught they left you with nothing, no clothing. No bed; nothing except for four bare padded walls and a hard cement floor. They would lock you in there for days at a time. Only letting you out long enough to use the toilet as they walked you handcuffed to the bathroom as they watched your every move.
It was humiliating as the guards made you walk to and from the restroom, with the other kids watching your nakedness. Some of them would whistle as the guards made you stand in front of them as they walked you down the middle of the hallway; facing the public as the other guards checked your cell. And depending on how long you were in solitary confinement they would walk you up and down the hall for thirty minutes plus rudimentary exercise from push-ups to jumping jacks while the other inmates watched.
Once was enough for me after spending two weeks in solitary confinement. That was one place bullies did not thrive. But it didn't stop the perverts from getting to you. I was lucky and fought back whenever I could and managed to get away before they could start doing the mambo jumbo on my behind. When it came to anything placed into my mouth, I was a biter. I would go down screaming and kicking; biting them as hard as I could so that their blood flowed between my teeth.
Having friends that backed you up made things more difficult for the perverts and made excellent eyewitnesses; the more you had the better off you were. Buying favors with extra food or doing the chores they didn't want to do, kept these friends in your pocket. Rape was common; you would think that the guards and nurses that worked there would put a stop to it, and for as many that would, there would be just as many that would turn their backs.
It was my grandmother that got me out of that place once she learned what was going on. Even though she was still grieving two years after my grandfather passed. She convinced the state to release me into a foster home in Orem, Utah that had just opened and was willing to take me in, problems and all.
Then I found out that my parents had returned my siblings eight months prior. Knowing they were living large and fairly safe compared to me was a bitter pill to swallow. Not only did my parents not visit me on visiting day, but they never wrote either. The only family member that did was my grandmother. I would receive a letter twice a week and a visit once a month if I were golden.
That home hadn't been the best home, but it hadn't been the worst home either. It was definitely better than the state hospital. Even though I have been in many homes since then, this is where my life truly begins or the memories that run so deep that the other homes earlier seem nothing more than a passing nightmare and are not worth mentioning.
I will never forget being in this foster home, number sixteen, known as the Frys. They lived in a part of town known as Grandview Hill, where several homes had been built on a huge hill that overlooked the Utah valley. I was in the sixth grade and attended Dixon Jr. High. The family had raised several foster children and three of their own. They had a good standing in the LDS church. Considering the church house was next door to the home, and a son named Jeff was preparing to go on a mission.
The home had a live-in basement made into the main family room and sewing room. My room was right next to it, dark with only one window, which was nailed shut and boarded up, making it pitch black without the light on. I had my own private bathroom with a shower just across the hall. The storage room was located at the far end of the family room. On the main level, you could find three bedrooms, an office, and an additional bathroom with a tub and shower. The main living room was small compared to the family room with its own dining room and kitchen off to the side. On the other side of the kitchen, there is where the backdoor and the stairs that lead to the basement.
The house had a spacious backyard with a large tree and a tire swing in the center, all constructed with red bricks. We had our own patio with a picnic table which went off the side of the two-car garage. The front yard was average size, not too big and not too small. Even though the church was next door with a basketball court, there was a long cinder block fence to separate the church and our yard.
It was the longest I'd ever stayed in a foster home at that point. They were strict, extremely strict when it came to discipline. I had my own room down in the basement even though they had an extra room with two unused beds. They preferred to keep me in the basement where they could prevent me from running away when their discipline went too far.
Mr. Fry, unlike my father, could control his temper. Never once did he use his fist nor his belt on me. But the large palm of his hand smarted enough on my bare bottom, as he counted each strike to match the punishment. I learned to keep my grades up because of him and learned not to be a smart mouth around anyone. I learned to answer with a 'yes sir' or a 'no ma'am' when I was out in public or in their home.
Mr. Fry had a stocky build, meaning he was tall but not too tall and well defined. His deep brown hair was graying, and he had bright blue eyes that seemed to see right through to your very soul. He worked, if I remember right, in computer software and traveled a lot for the firm installing databases. He had a military feel from his navy days served as a Captain during the war on a battleship. I don't remember the name of the ship, but the picture on the wall always seemed to impress me. He believed that a man should walk tall no matter what, and when I slouched, he would yell. 'Look, lively boy.' He may have been strict, but he had a gentle side, too.
Mrs. Fry was a wonderful mother. She seldom punished you when you stepped out of line, but her words could cut you too ribbons when she was angry. I learned early on to stand there until she finished, or she would slap me to get my attention or if I gave her any lip or growled under my breath. She was almost the same height as her husband, being five-nine, and still had her girlish figure. It took a lot to make her angry, but when you did, be prepared to pay the piper.
Her steely blue eyes said it all when she was proud or upset with something you did; she could always tell when you were lying. Which would earn you a swift punishment when she caught you, so I learned quickly not to lie; and especially to her. She was a stay-at-home mom and firmly believed in the LDS church, even more so about women staying at home to raise their children, and frowned on the ones that did not. I was always required to attend every Sunday as we sat upfront in all our meetings. With a having to give a report which had to be handwritten on what dinner time taught me in each of the meetings or you'd go hungry.
Dad was always good at finding out things I didn't want him to know. Like whenever I tried to make things up because I had skipped class when it had to do with the subject of family and how it always made me angry enough to spit nails. I also had a bad habit of losing my temper and would slam my scriptures down, storming out of the room. It was embarrassing to have him sit next to me in primary and Sunday schools until he could trust me to behave. Sometimes they would switch; having Mom or Jeff sit with me, or I'd end up in one of their meetings instead. The point is, I still had to write that report before supper.
To me, Jeff was an average teenager, the kind I always envied. I had to wonder what it would be like to be eighteen, almost nineteen, and out of high school; built like a basketball star. With his long legs and skinny body, but don't let that fool you, he could pin me to the floor easy enough or catch you with his long legs. His blond hair and deep blue eyes could make any girl swoon as he passed them in the hallway as I shook my head and rolled my eyes when they gasped standing in front of him. He would seem bored, as they would turn their heads for one last glance.
I could guarantee that no girl had ever looked at me like that. My face was full of pimples, I had a missionary haircut, and wore stupid Coke bottle lenses. I hated my looks and compared myself to a nerd without the stupid pocket protector and high-water striped pants. The glasses were the last straw. I hated them and when I would first get angry, I would throw them; I'd stomp on them or crush them in my bare hands.
When I did, I would get the beating of a lifetime; I never realized how much they'd cost until I ended up paying for them myself without the state's help. After that, I would set them aside and then bang my head against my desk or remove my shoes and throw them across the room instead. It had become obvious I had a temper like my father, and it was something that I needed to get control of; the sooner the better or end up grounded for the rest of my life.
Even though I had a lot of misgivings about church practices about family. I had a challenging time learning to keep my mouth shut after being slapped enough times until my jaw hurt or my bottom would be too sore to sit on without grimacing. Not even my Dad would let me get away with it as I sat many nights with a sore bottom and without supper as they locked me in my room. It was very rough in the beginning, as it seemed we would never see eye to eye about church rules; what is and was not acceptable behavior? No wonder my parents hated me if I acted like this at home.
After some hard months, we'd built a strong trust that was unlike any of the foster homes before this. We treated them with respect, using the words Dad and Mom, and they only allowed me to address them as sir or ma'am. Scouting was important in their family and as were church functions. Even though I had some Scouting early on because of my Grandmother's persistence; it gained momentum in this home.
They rewarded me for my good deeds, like good grades and completing household chores. I was the only child in the home except for Jeff, and we hardly saw each other. He would work in one of the metal shops in town to help pay for his mission. This left me, at times, with most of the duties, which comprised keeping the yard mowed and raked, the house clean, my room clean, and my bed made military style so that you could bounce a quarter off it. I also had the responsibility of putting away my clean clothes neatly and placing my dirty ones in the hamper for washing.
As soon as I stepped into the house; It had been almost two years before I hated shoes and socks and would seldom wear them at home, preferring to go barefoot. Bathing too became easier as I began to feel comfortable without my Eskimo suit, but a home visit always made me revert back until I learned there was nothing for me to be embarrassed about. It also helped when grandma had sat me down with the Fry's and talk openly about my growing body and the birds and the bees when came to the sex talk.
If it weren't for the Frys and my grandmother, the Eskimo suit would still be a part of my life. I have always been afraid of being in my own skin when I look in the mirror. It makes me feel dirty, immoral, like a freak of nature. Twice I had tried it to nearly bleed to death. That was when they sat me down for the talk, hoping to convince me that there was nothing freakish, dirty, or immoral about me and my ever-changing body. I had a really tough time with modesty because of my changing body. I would for several more years because of how my parents saw me, which was always an embarrassing and immoral freak that nobody wanted.
I had learned that trust needed to be earned, and I quickly understood how it could be lost. Or being made aware of a home visit the following weekend. A butt whipping was far better than going on a home visit, even being grounded was preferable. (It worked until they caught on to the idea that I would do it on purpose just so I wouldn't be good enough to go.)
My foster parents the Fry's would often chain me to my bed for trying to run away or until they could trust me again, and my grades improved after completing a lot of extra credit. Mom was always good at helping me when I needed it and always encouraged me to do better. A fresh plate of double chocolate chip cookies seemed to help, too. Dad seldom took me over his knee, and we bonded. I even stopped being afraid of people touching me and started to be a normal, happy boy.
I hated going home to my actual parents. It broke me in two as I clung to my Dad begging him not to go. He would pat me on my bottom to remind me and to let me know this was unacceptable behavior. Until after I came back with a chipped front tooth and a broken leg, courtesy of my father and a few new bruises. Finding out that my father had lost his temper again and threw me down the stairs in front of the house, and he and my mother had beaten me senseless. It wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last. Plus, knowing they would once more get away with it, telling everyone I had tripped and fallen before they could catch me. Like always, the State and their revolving door of caseworkers would believe them.
Again, no one seemed to care as they walked by quickly or gathered their children, shutting the door behind them. And to think these were good LDS families and neighbors. The saying 'out of sight and out of mind' never seemed truer. The home visits stopped and once again my parents were in counseling, along with my three siblings. I still wear the cap on my front tooth, and it would always be a reminder of this incident. It was also the first time I had needed braces; I wasn't sure if it was my parent's fault, or it was something every kid experienced, but thanks to the Frys for making me wear them or today I wouldn't have straight teeth.