My Grandmother’s #MeToo Trauma

My grandmother in the 1940s or 1950s.

photographer unknown

This is a hard post for me to write. I struggled about whether or not I should even write this, but I think I should.

With all the talk the past year or so about sexual harassment, sexual assault and rape, I've been thinking a great deal. The discussions haven't brought up any trauma for me. Like every woman, I've been subjected to harassment. This is not to deny that those injustices should be ignored but merely to state that I am okay.

This post isn't about me.

This is about my grandmother.

She passed in 2011, and I miss her every day. About six or seven months before she passed, she entrusted me with a secret.

She had been molested and raped as a child and teen.

She didn't tell me the gory details, and I didn't ask. She didn't tell me names, though I have no doubt she remembered them. Suffice it to say, she knew her attackers.

Even she wasn't sure if everything that had been done to her "counted" as something wrong. She asked me that when talking about the man who took her into a room as a child and did things to her. "Now, isn't that wrong?"

I told her yes, it was. I said that with absolute conviction because it is true.

My grandmother in the mid-1980s

in San Antonio.

photo by my mother

I don't know how I kept from crying when she told me that. I'm crying typing this right now.

The point I want to make here is not to name the men who hurt my grandmother; I don't know their names. The point is not to damage the way people remember my grandmother; they have their own memories of her to recall.

The point is that that trauma lived with my grandmother for the rest of her life.

She lacked confidence in herself. She considered herself “stupid” (her word, not mine).

These things I knew long before I knew about her assaults. I always thought they were a result of bullying behavior by siblings or the fact that she had to quit school in sixth grade. And I'm sure that's part of it, too.

But it all boils down to the shame she lived with every day for most of her life.

My grandmother and grandfather at their

40th wedding anniversary.

photographer unknown

As far as I know, the only person she told was her husband.

People who have been assaulted sexually are forced to deal with that shame and trauma every day. Some are able to talk about their experiences almost immediately, and some are not. Some are lucky enough to see their attackers serve time in prison. Most are not.

The revelations and news about sexual offenders that has come out over the past years has been infuriating, heartbreaking and depressing. I do not know how my grandmother would have responded to all of these revelations. Would they have brought back painful memories? Would she have told me more details? Would she have reached out to someone for help?

I like to think she would appreciate me writing this post for her as a way to exorcise some of her demons. I hope that's true.

If you or someone you know has been sexually assaulted and needs help, please contact RAINN.

You can also donate to RAINN.

Jon Scieszka: An Appreciation

What can I say about Jon Scieszka that hasn't already been said?

I got to meet him once when I was helping with local arrangements for the Texas Library Association's annual conference. He was going to assist with the emcee duties for the Book Cart Drill Team Competition, and we were reviewing the way the event would go.

He was such fun!

There are people you meet and you instantly feel like you could be friends with this person forever. Jon Scieszka is like that. I don't remember if we were formally introduced or not. In my memory, he just showed up and joined this group of Texas librarians like he had been there for years.

I suppose, in a way, he had.

Librarians have rock star authors that we love for any number of reasons. One of the biggest reasons we love certain authors is that they love libraries and reading, too. Jon Scieszka is one of those authors. Like librarians, he knows there's a story out there for every reader--especially so-called "reluctant" boy readers. It's one of the reasons he started Guys Read.

Ultimately, though, his books are funny and customers love them. There doesn't need to be anything more than that. But the fact that there is? That's what makes Jon Scieszka a rock star.

Patricia Polacco: An Appreciation

Patricia Polacco is another author I was introduced to as an adult. The first book of hers I read was Thank You, Mr. Falker, which I read in graduate school. It is a beautiful story about a wonderful teacher who recognizes the troubles young Trisha is having in his fifth grade classroom and teaches her to read.

I cried when I read it. I cry when I read almost any Polacco book. The one that makes me cry the most is Pink and Say.

If you haven't read Pink and Say, do yourself a favor. Find a copy of the book, and then find a private space. Bring Kleenex! It takes place during the Civil War, but it's about so much more than that. It's a heartbreaking friendship story, it's another tale about learning to read, and it's a powerful testament to stories and the impacts they have on people's lives.

Many of Polacco's stories are like that. They are stories from her life or ones that have been passed down through her family. Every time I read one I am struck by her life and family and all the stories they have lived. Her books make me think about my own family stories.

How would I write a book about some of the tales I've heard from my family? How would you?

Cynthia Rylant: An Appreciation

I was first introduced to Cynthia Rylant by a dear friend of mine. She was an elementary teacher and lent me a number of her personal children's books to read, basically re-introducing me to a world of literature that I had missed during my teen and college years.

She placed Missing May in my hands and told me to read it. It was a paperback with that familiar gold Newbery medal on the cover, and it was thin. I probably read it during one lunch break at my summer job.

What a stunning little book! In so few pages, Rylant describes a girl who has lost many people in her life but doesn't let that stop her from forming a new family and learning to live with those losses. It is the perfect book for a child to read who has lost a loved one. It reassures children that it is okay to miss someone but also encourages them not to wallow in that grief. It's one of the most realistic depictions of a child recovering from a loved one's death that I've ever read.

I've since read many other books by Rylant, and each one is a gem. I'm especially fond of her poetry book God Went to Beauty School. It's full of poems about God celebrating what we would consider mundane pleasures in life and finding the absolute beauty, the true awesomeness of life. Take this segment from the title poem:

He got into nails, of course,
because He'd always loved
hands—
hands were some of the best things
He'd ever done
and this way He could just
hold one in His
and admire those delicate
bones just above the knuckles,
delicate as birds' wings,
and after He'd done that
awhile,
He could paint all the nails
any color He wanted,
then say,
"Beautiful,"
and mean it.

Isn't that wonderful? I adore Cynthia Rylant's work. Take some time and enjoy her work for yourself.

Beverly Cleary: An Appreciation

Sara and Ramona finally meeting
in Portland, Oregon.

photo by Flo Bright

I've spoken about my love for Ramona Quimby before, but since it's her creator's birthday, I'm going to talk about my love for Beverly Cleary.

That's right. It's Beverly Cleary's birthday! She's 102 years old today.

It's almost impossible to believe that the creator of Ramona Quimby, Henry Huggins, Ralph S. Mouse and so many other characters is still alive. Her books were such an integral part of my childhood, and they seemed like they were always there.

The first book of Beverly Cleary's I ever experienced was The Mouse and the Motorcycle. My second grade teacher read it aloud to the class. That, in and of itself, was kind of miraculous. I don't recall any other teacher reading a story aloud, especially over the course of several days.

But the story captivated me. I'm not usually a fan of talking animal stories -- at least not in novels -- but I adored Ralph S. Mouse and his little red motorcycle. Perhaps it was because I like toy cars myself. I wanted to find a little mouse (or a hamster or a gerbil or any tiny rodent) and put them in a toy car to drive. I still think that would be fun.

I read the other books about Ralph myself and enjoyed them, but then I met Ramona.

She was a delight. She got in trouble (like me). She was punished (like me). She had a temper (like me). She was so real that I honestly thought if I could get to Portland I would find her and we would be best friends.

Ribsy, another adored Beverly Cleary creation,
in Portland, Oregon.

photo by me

I read those books over and over and over. When I got Ramona Forever, we were on a vacation to Florida. That was the first hardcover book I ever bought. It was the first book I ever read where people lived in Alaska. It might even have been the first book I read that featured a wedding.

Ramona's World came out when I was in graduate school (to be a librarian like Beverly Cleary!). Did that stop from buying it and reading it in one sitting? Of course not! After classes were over for the day, I immediately went to the bookstore, drove home and devoured the story.

For Beverly Cleary's 100th birthday, her publisher had a huge birthday card for people to sign at the Texas Library Association Annual Conference. I proudly signed my name and included my small hometown. I wanted her to know that even people from places she had never heard of had adored her stories.

Happy birthday, Beverly Cleary!

Leo and Diane Dillon: An Appreciation

In honor of Diane Dillon's birthday, I believe an appreciation of this couple's work is in order.

They won two Caldecott medals, one Coretta Scott King Illustrator Award and numerous honors, and been runners-up for the Hans Christian Andersen Award.

Their body of work is breathtaking.

I can't remember when I first saw their artwork -- probably when Why Mosquitoes Buzz In People's Ears was read on Reading Rainbow. But I didn't truly appreciate their work until I became a librarian and saw the full range of their gifts.

I grew up in a small town with a small school library. I honestly can't tell you if that library owned any books that were illustrated by the Dillons. With such a small school library, my mother did her best to keep me up to my ears in new and classic children's books, but some works passed her by as well.

Nevertheless, I did find their work, and I am so glad I did.

The images they created glow, not only with light and warmth, but with humanity and dignity and beauty. The skills they possess!

In the book To Every Thing There Is a Season: Verses from Ecclesiastes, the Dillons use traditional artistic styles from around the world as inspiration. There are spreads inspired by Ancient Egypt, Thailand, the Middle East, and Ancient Mexico, among others. Each turn of the page shows different skills. It's gorgeous work.

Sadly, Leo Dillon passed away in 2012. However, Diane Dillon recently released a new picture book that looks as glorious as ever. I'm looking forward to reading I Can Be Anything! Don't Tell Me I Can't and losing myself in the images.

To see more of their artwork, visit The Art of Leo and Diane Dillon.

35 Years Later

Papaw at his 40th wedding anniversary.

Photographer unknown

Thirty-five years ago today, the world lost a good man -- Papaw, my grandfather.

I've written about my grandmother, Nana, and her final days, but Papaw died when I was six years old. Long before blogs. Long before hybrid cars. Long before smart phones and tablets. Long before so many things.

Thirty-five years is a long time. It's a long time to miss someone. It's a long time to cling to memories. And it's a long time for memories to fade.

For years, I had a cassette tape that had Papaw's voice on it. Sadly, I've lost that tape somewhere along the way. I don't really remember his voice anymore. I recall the voice on the tape being somewhat deep, but I no longer know if that's true.

Here's what I do remember about Papaw.

He read to me almost every night. I know he read more books than these, but I especially remember him reading Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss; Go, Dog, Go! by P.D. Eastman; and The Astrosmurf by Peyo. I knew Green Eggs and Ham so well that I could tell Papaw when he messed up reading.

Papaw hated reading The Astrosmurf. It's a comic book, so the text is in bubbles. He had a hard time with those. But I must have thought he was wonderful because I wanted him to read that book over and over (or maybe I knew he hated it and wanted to torture him).

Nana knew he couldn't stand reading The Astrosmurf and every so often, she would "lose" the book. Then a few weeks later, while she was cleaning or something, she would "find" it. "Why don't you ask Papaw to read this to you tonight?" I would delightedly hand him the beloved book, and he would shoot Nana the dirtiest look he could muster, knowing she was responsible. Nana would only smile.

Papaw used to wrap me in a blanket on cold mornings before school and carry me over to Mom's house (I usually stayed at Nana's and Papaw's overnight). Then he would start Mom's truck for us, so it would be warm when we left. Once I moved to Indiana, I wished he were here to do this all again, although I wouldn't have needed to be carried.

While Mom took me to school, I rode the bus home when I was in kindergarten. Papaw met me at the end of the driveway in his golf cart or the truck (weather dependent) every day and drove me back to the house.

Nana, Papaw and me.

Photographer unknown

Papaw drank milk. Once, he was sitting in his chair with his supper on the TV tray in front of him and a big glass of milk beside his plate. Being about five at the time, I grabbed the glass and took a swig. Unfortunately for me, it was buttermilk. I don't remember if I kept that drink down or spit it back in Papaw's glass, but every time I saw him with a glass of milk after that, I would ask if it was "good milk" or "bad milk."

Papaw loved working in his garden. We have some old home movies where I'm following in his footsteps while he's tilling the earth. I remember doing that more than once. I thought he couldn't see me because I was directly behind him and wanted to scare him when he turned off the tiller. I do not remember whether or not I was ever successful.

On the back of this photo, Nana wrote "the day before

he left us."

Photographer unknown

When he got sick and was in the hospital, I had special permission to visit him in his room. This was back when children under the age of twelve weren't allowed to visit patients. I don't know why twelve was chosen as the magic age, but I was only six. As I understand it, Mom and/or Nana spoke with the staff, and I was able to visit Papaw any time I was there. Maybe Papaw did this; I don't know.

It seems like we went to see him in the hospital every day after school. I was in first grade, and Mom would pick me up. We would drive an hour to the hospital in Victoria and stay there for a while before coming home. Nana was already there.

I know that he explained the cancer to me, but I don't recall the words he used. I know he told me he was going to die and what that meant, but I don't remember how he did that either. I do remember that he told me not to cry when he died.

When that happened, I honored that request.