for natasha
2008-04-17, 8:46 a.m.
A word of caution, this entry is not for children. And it certainly isn't for those of you who find bad language and talk about sex offensive.
This entry is for my friend, Natasha.
I started writing a play some time ago about father/daughter relationships but never finished it. I have a pattern of starting things and never seeing them through. It's something I'm not particularly proud of, but there you have it, I'm a procrastinator.
That's probably why I love blogging so much, and writing poetry. These things do not require the amount of commitment, focus and time that it requires to write a novel or a play.
Yesterday I started spring cleaning and found a box filled with all of my writing projects. In there were all of the interviews I had conducted with the 50 plus women I had selected for the project and felt really sad because I let them down. I dropped the ball. They gave me their time, poured their hearts out because they thought I was going to do something with the gift they gave me.
That said, there is one woman's story in particular that moved me. Probably because she was my friend - a sex industry worker. Someone you would have never assumed would be doing something like THAT with her life. She was extremely well read, intelligent, worldly, kind, loyal, and so generous. Every time she came to my house for a visit she would bring something.
Unfortunately my friend died. She committed suicide about a year after I did this interview with her.
I can still remember how hard it was for her to do the interview. It was something I had asked her about, but she kept putting it off. She told me she knew it was because she didn't want to "go back there again", to relive her past.
But then one day I received a phone call from her, "Let's do it she said."
She arrived at my apartment with a large bottle of red wine and a scented candle. And we lit that candle, sat down at the kitchen table, and for the next couple of hours she poured her heart out to me. By the time she finished, we had gone through a box of Kleenex and that bottle of wine, and as we got ready for bed neither of us said a thing.
There was nothing left we could say.
One I wanted to share with you. At least her story will have an audience now, however small.
This is the monologue I wrote based on her story. I hope you will read it without judgment. I hope that it will help some of you understand why so many women end up in the sex industry. For so many, a past history of abuse and neglect had a lot to do with it.
GHOST
He used to take me out on Sunday's
to get the New York Times.
And he would buy me a piece of candy of my choice.
This was always exciting for me. And I remember
one time, for some reason,
we went to a sewage treatment plant.
I don't know what we were doing there
or why we were there,
but I felt - I remember feeling -
as if he was going to kill me.
We were walking around this pool -
NO, it was more like a lake.
And it was inside a sewage plant.
I can still remember the stench.
And then a man came and said,
"What are you doing?
You're not supposed to be here."
And I remember feeling
that my father was scared.
So, we went back to the car
and went home.
I don't know what that was about.
Periodically I wonder,
did that ever really happen?
It was kind of a dodgy thing in my memory.
Real hazy like a DREAM but not really.
I mean, if it were just a DREAM,
why wouldn't I remember it
for thirty years? I mean,
I've heard of people suppressing memories,
but I've never heard of someone suppressing
their DREAMS.
Anyway, it makes sense.
My father didn't WANT kids.
After ten years, my mother says,
"Okay, it's coming,
I'm pregnant."
And he never WANTed any part of it.
So I came along,
and he no longer had my mother's TIME
or attention, and he resented it.
Any TIME my mother and I would start talking
He always found a reason to call for her.
Even now, when I'm home visiting my parents,
my mother and I will be talking,
and she'll STOP...
"OH I have to make lunch for your father.
I have to START getting lunch ready."
And I'm like, it's 11 in the morning,
tell him to make his own fucking lunch!
He always came first.
One time, years ago,
I confronted my mom about it.
And she said,
"What do you expect?
He's my husband.
Of course he's going to come first."
Fair enough, because you know what,
I feel bad for him.
Because, you know,
you don't WANT the "thing"
and now you're stuck
with a couple of decades of responsibility
that you never asked for in the first place.
And you know what?
He didn't exactly have it easy growing up,
so why should anybody else?
He was born in Poland,
raised during the WAR at a time
when the GERMAN troops were coming through,
and sent the Jews, along with some Polish Christians,
to forced labor camps in Austria.
So...my father,
being Catholic,
was raised in Austria
working in a GERMAN forced labor camp,
while his mother and sister were separated
and ended up in England. He didn't see them
for years - he thought they were dead.
The two of them ended up in England,
and he ended up with his alcoholic father,
wandering around - I don't even know exactly where,
but trying to rent rooms and survive.
It was just the two of them.
They ended up saving enough MONEY
and coming to AMERICA.
And after a period of time,
the AMERICAN Red Cross found his mother and his sister
and then eventually they brought them over to AMERICA.
So...the family, then, after nine years,
was reunited. Needless to say,
he doesn't like the GERMANS.
And my mother is GERMAN - so you can imagine
the forty-three years of subtle abuse!
I remember...two years ago,
I heard my father screaming at my mother,
"How many? How many?!
How many people did he kill?"
The question was directed at her
because her father was a professional Army officer
in the GERMAN army.
He had no choice.
You know what I'm saying?
If he didn't do his job,
his whole family would be shot.
Anyway...
I couldn't take it anymore.
I came storming out of my room.
"Why would you say THAT?"
And then I turned to my mother and I said,
"Mom, don't answer THAT question."
But she couldn't help it,
she began justifying it,
stuttering and stammering.
"But it was WAR, you can't look back.
It was a brutal time.
And that's just the way it was."
But my father couldn't let it go.
There was still all this ANGER.
Come to think of it,
the only emotion I've ever seen
my father express is ANGER.
There were times he'd scream all night
AND punch holes in the wall,
AND threaten to kill me and my mother.
AND sometimes that would last for days,
or other times he would just ignore us
and be silent...for weeks on end.
Silent. (Pause)
And then, occasionally, when he'd snap out of it,
I'd find a twenty dollar bill on the table.
Which, you know,
in 1984 when you're a teenager,
what do you do with that kind of money?
You go and buy make-up
or nail polish, or clothes.
When I saw the MONEY,
then I knew everything was okay,
at least for a few days...
until he snapped out of it.
Then he'd turn around
and call me a PROSTITUTE,
for accepting the MONEY.
And I wonder...
did he read that PROSTITUTE energy in me,
or did I become a PROSTITUTE because,
from the age of seven on,
I was being told I was a PROSTITUTE?
I don't know which came first. (Pause)
Well,
I couldn't wait to get out of the house.
As soon as I was legally able to WORK,
at age fourteen, I got my WORKing papers
and immediately started WORKing.
Interestingly enough, my first job
was in a lingerie shop, run by women,
obviously only women WORKed there;
these two crazy Greek women.
It was a small family business.
We had great fun.
My father never set foot in that store.
I WORKed there for almost ten years.
It was quite funny.
Whenever he would come pick me up
he would just stand at the door and stick his head in,
and say, "Tell Natasha I'm here."
He would not enter the store.
So that was a safe environment for me to be in
because it was someplace he didnt feel comfortable.
I had more lingerie,
by the time I was nineteen,
when I lost my virginity,
than most women have after ten years.
And to this day I love lingerie.
And I felt so sorry for my mother
that with all of my extra MONEY,
I would buy her things. You know,
perfumes, things that I would like for myself;
beautiful silk blouses for her to wear to work.
I would just buy her things,
thinking they would make her happier.
Then...when I was fifteen years old.
I sat her down. I said,
"I think father did something to me
that's not right." She said,
"He would never do something like THAT.
He's such a good man. He keeps a job.
He comes home with MONEY."
It had started when I was eleven,
I remember it would happen at parties,
in front of a handful of people.
Someone would turn away,
and he would fondle my breasts.
And it would be done,
clandestinely,
so that no one would notice.
That's what really freaked me out.
There were ten people ten feet away,
but no one could HELP ME...
I stopped wearing bathing suits
around him. I remember
when we went for a dreaded family vacation
for a week to Upstate
New York - Lake George.
I would have a bathing suit on,
but over it I would wear a t-shirt
going down to my knees!
And my mother would be so angry at me.
She said, I bought you a beautiful bathing suit
of your choice, why are you covering it up?"
Then it started happening at the kitchen table.
My father would insist on the family sitting down together.
Because that's what families do.
So my mother would cook this wonderful meal,
and I would sit there and eat it.
And my father, in silence,
would stare at my breasts the whole time.
I was eleven, twelve years old,
and I thought, now my mother will see for herself,
And she'll make him stop.
But my mother would just laugh and look away -
pretending nothing was happening;
everything was fine.
And I kept saying,
"Father, don't look at me.
DON'T look at me."
He would just sit there,
staring, and barely eat.
It wouldn't happen a lot.
I hated dinner time.
but I had to sit there
until everything was finished
off the plate, or else I was ungrateful.
Because they went without food
for so long during the WAR.
No one had any idea.
People THOUGHT
we were the perfect family.
They THOUGHT
my father was kind,
gregarious, helpful;
if somebody had a flat tire,
he'd be the first one there
with the tire iron,
jacking the car up,
and helping to change the tire.
Occasionally, though,
certain people,
if they were perceptive enough,
they could see a silent rage,
seething, festering below.
And even now, as an adult,
do you know,
I never sit down at a dinner table.
I'll sit on the couch,
or eat standing in the kitchen,
but I never really cook meals just for me
and sit down at the table
like a civilized human being
to enjoy a meal.
Although I really should get into that habit,
I just can't bring myself to do it.
I was envious of my girlfriends
in high school
whose fathers
for no reason
would buy them gifts
or be taken out shopping,
or for brunch.
For some reason
this particular generation of fathers
couldn't really express their emotions,
Instead they expressed their love
by making sure you had what you needed
and what you wanted
MONETARILY.
It was the 80's
and everybody was making MONEY.
If you grew up in the 80's,
then you know what I'm talking about.
But the only time my father ever gave me MONEY
was, like I said,
to make up for his rage.
And sometimes,
still,
when I see a father & daughter shopping together
at Christmas time,
if I see there's a level of kindness
or a beautiful connection,
I have to walk away.
Its too painful for me to watch.
I remember
my first memory of a man being kind to me
was when I went to Germany.
I was 21 years old,
and I was working in Germany at the time,
and my mother's friends there -
they would have me over
for dinner on occasion.
They were wonderful people.
They had a beautiful marriage.
They truly loved each other,
and could finish each other's sentences,
and still held hands.
This after 35 years!
So that was a model for me
to watch them at dinner
and see how they related,
like human beings.
They treated each other with respect.
Not disdain, and disgust, and
seething anger that I'd seen in my household.
So,
one day
I needed a ride from their house
back to Munich. And they said,
"We have a friend going in."
So, I agreed to ride
with this friend.
He worked for the government.
Very intelligent man, PhD.
And he said, "Yes, come ride with me."
So, the whole time we were talking
and he was genuinely interested,
you know, interested in how I was doing.
How I was acclimating to Germany,
and what was going on.
So he said to me,
"Do you need anything?"
I said, "Well actually,
I could use some shampoo & some soap."
I'd been working from morning to night
and all the stores in Germany closed
at like 5 or 6 o'clock.
So, to buy soap in Germany,
you had to go shopping during your lunch hour.
I don't know if it's still like that,
but this is the way it was
in the early 90's.
I needed soap, shampoo, hairspray -
the basics. He said, "No problem,
we'll stop at a store along the way."
So,
we went into a grocery store
and I felt shell shocked
because he didn't need anything,
this was all for ME,
and I didn't want him to get upset with me
for taking too long.
So,
I was running around the aisles,
grabbing any kind of shampoo & soap.
AND he watched me,
AND then he came up to me
AND he said,
"How do you know you like these?"
So, he took the soap out of my basket
AND he opened it up,
AND he smelled it,
AND he said,
"Do you like it?
Is THIS the one you like?
You have fifteen choices.
Let's smell them. You pick one your like."
And he did the same with shampoo.
And I was just...(Emotional)
so touched that he actually cared about
whether or not I liked the soap
and the shampoo that I was going to use
for the next two months.
So,
I mean,
I cried about that for days. (Pause)
It was the first time that a man...
that I felt GENUINE kindness from a man.
But,
then,
there was some weird sexual energy
that started soon after with him.
He didn't make any advances towards me
but I could feel it. I was always very
perceptive. So even that - you know,
he was paying attention to me,
but it was SEXualized. You know,
there was charge to it. So,
you can't really say he was being kind,
he was just being
typical.
And I look back at how said it is,
aside from my experience in Germany
the only two positive things
I think I've ever gotten from men
are SEX and MONEY.
And the number of times I've enjoyed SEX with THEM
throughout the years,
is limited.
In high school,
I was known as the "blow job queen".
It was a way that I learned
I could control men.
And I learned
if you get good enough
at blow jobs
men are so taken aback
by a good blow job
that their hands won't touch you.
I didn't want them to touch me.
it was my conscious intent.
I'm just lucky that drugs were never
my thing. You know
I'll admit I'm a SEX addict.
Using SEX as power,
using it to feed my ego.
And the love was always an illusion
because I'm not healthy and whole enough,
within myself,
to manifest a nurturing, sincere relationship.
Except with WOMEN,
you know,
our connection is always -
I CHERISH that.
You know,
I can be REAL.
I feel very LOVED and supported,
and seen when I'm with my WOMEN friends.
But with MEN it's very illusory,
it's very FLEETING.
It will last a night,
maybe a few months,
if you're lucky.
But it's CONDITIONAL, ultimately.
And I'd have to say,
the fairest exchange I'd ever had
with men,
I've had working in the sex industry
where I don't feel cheated.
You know?
You want a body rub
or a fantasy,
or a butt fuck,
or a blow job,
or possibly even a fuck?
Ok, we negotiate the price,
there is an even exchange
and I walk away with MONEY.
I walk away with something I can use.
I don't walk away with a broken heart
that will need to be repaired.
You know?
I protect myself from disease,
so I don't walk away with something I'll regret.
As opposed to in my personal life,
when I have taken risks,
both physical and emotional,
that I regret taking.
Thank god, knock on wood,
I've been okay. But in the business
I don't do that.
I do wish my father could find the courage
to go into his own demons
instead of blaming me and my mother
for his ANGER, when it always came from within.
You know?
To delve in,
and really be able to connect with people,
because that's where the good stuff is.
He's just a ghost.
A pathetic ghost.
His essence is just kind of
hovering above
because he's not in his body.
It just hovers above him.
He's not connected to anyone or anything.
Interesting though,
He does have a passion for flight.
He used to be a flight instructor.
My mother hates flying.
I remember,
I must have been five or six,
I still have the memory quite clearly-
I went flying with him
and he was doing a safety check first,
and somehow the gasoline jumped
out of the side of the plane
onto the glass below,
which was very dry
and it caught fire on the grass,
underneath the plane.
My father grabbed me by the arm,
I was young enough that he could
pick me up with one hand.
he grabbed me up and literally threw me.
he was a big, strong guy.
He just threw me in the grass,
and I didn't know what was happening.
He put out the fire underneath the plane.
He didn't want it to get too out of control,
or else it would have blown up the gas tank and the plane.
So I was sitting there crying,
and he just really -
I could tell he was really upset at what just happened,
because it was dangerous.
And somehow I thought
he was upset about ME.
But he didn't comfort me and say,
it's okay now the fire is out.
He was more concerned about the plane.
And as a result,
I now have this intense fear of fire.
But you know what,
he did the best he could,
and I'm sorry for coming into his life.
I think he really regretted my existence,
having somebody to take care of.
He didn't want any of that.
I can imagine that would suck.
I understand that....
I love him though.
Everybody just does the best they can.
That's the way the world is.
YESTERDAY - TOMORROW
LEAVE A COMMENT
peachfront - 2008-04-17 12:53:37
I actually have an idea of what the sewage treatment pond visit could have been about. I don't think the guy was trying to kill his kid. From the sound of it I think he had a lot of problems but at least part of him was trying to do the right thing and take the kid out each Sunday. You mention he was into flight and flying, and I think he probably heard or read about how sometimes you can see the special migratory birds if you visit a sewage treatment pond. He probably wasn't knowledgeable enough to go at the right time of day or maybe he even had the wrong time of year. So the birds weren't there. The birders weren't there. And it would be a little scary as you're wandering around thinking, Gosh, I've really screwed up this outing. There are also verboten areas that you might be more likely to wander into if you don't quite know what you're doing. So what could have been something really special was turned into something really creepy.
What a very sad story. And I'm sorry for the loss of your friend and how she couldn't overcome so much sadness.
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sduckie - 2008-04-17 16:26:29
Thanks for sharing. Sending love, even now, to your friend.
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