Today is Father's Day. This simple day to honor fathers always brings back deeply buried memories of my father and my stepfather. Their lives and how they lived them have had profound effects on me.

Four Parents are Too Many©

By Marianne Tong

Why is this story so difficult for me to deal with? Even from my mature perspective, I have trouble sorting out the conflicted emotions that any thoughts about my parents evoke.

A child’s love is simple, uncomplicated; eventually reality sets in. They were my heroes! Larger than life, the four people who were my parents gradually began to shrink until I discovered they were mortal human beings after all.

Attentively, I listened to their stories. Admiringly, I respected their courage. Guilelessly, I loved them. Each one of them was a good person in a corrupt world. Each of them was greatly affected by World War II. In turn, they influenced the twists and turns of my life. While each one of them did what he or she thought was best, together they managed to send me to the brink of despair.

Perhaps I should retell the stories of their youth as I heard them from their own lips before recounting how their lives converged with mine.

Jakob

 “Jakob, keep turning that handle! The wash needs to be thoroughly rinsed before I can hang it on the line!” Jakob’s mother yelled from the kitchen.

In 1915 he was just a little boy of six, but he was expected to help with the laundry.

Jakob was thinking about the book he had started to read when his mother roughly dragged him into the washroom. “I’m working as hard as I can, Mother,” he quietly said.

 “You always have your nose stuck in a book! Do you expect me to do all the work around here just so you can fill your head with high-faluting ideas?” his mother had that wild look in her eyes that warned of a spanking.

 “I’m sorry,” whispered Jakob as he obediently cranked the handle on the washtub. Soon he would be going to school. “I’m not going to be a carpenter like my father,” thought Jakob. “I want to read and think and go to school.”

Despite the demands of World War I on German families, Jakob managed to continue going to school and pursuing his dream of becoming an educated man. At a time when most young boys had to start learning a trade at age fourteen, he attended high school until he was eighteen.

“No, I’m sorry, you can’t go to college,” his father announced when Jakob pleaded with him. “You need to start working and bringing in money. You know that my health is failing, and I can’t support you and your mother anymore.”

Though disappointed, Jakob accepted the circumstances. His high school teachers had recognized his academic and athletic talents and would have liked to see him go to a university, after graduation from high school, but there was no way to persuade the parents. One of the teachers helped him get a job in the largest insurance company in Germany, the Frankfurter Allianz. Jakob proudly contributed most of his meager earnings to the household budget for several years.

“Mother, I’ve met a young lady. She’s beautiful, and I would like to marry her,” Jakob carefully approached the subject at dinner one day.

“Well, our apartment is very small, but I suppose it would be good for me to have some help with the housework,” his mother answered.

“What do you mean?” Jakob wondered.

“You can’t afford to move out and support a wife. We need you. She’ll have to live here.”

Jakob became thoughtful, “I’m doing quite well at the Allianz. Soon I’ll get another raise and…”

“No,” his mother interrupted. “Your father and I depend on you. You are our only child, and it is your duty to take care of us in our old age. When you get married, your wife will live with us!”

Jakob knew that arguing was futile.

Tilly

Tilly was born at home prematurely on March 3, 1915 to a young German woman with an alcoholic husband and another baby of only one and a half years old. In fact, her father was too drunk to register the baby's birth until two days later. Thus Tilly's birthday was officially listed on her birth certificate as March 5. She weighed only two pounds, so the midwife said, “This baby won’t live!” Tilly’s mother bedded her down in a shoe box and fed her goat's milk with an eyedropper. Despite the violence of World War I raging through Europe and accelerating into a full-blown world war, Tilly’s mother, Maria somehow managed to pull this tiny baby into adult life.

The little girl had many illnesses while she was growing up. There was her bout with rickets which left her with bowed legs. Rickets is a vitamin deficiency very common at that time and place. When the rambunctious little girl recovered enough from that disease to be allowed back to school, she had to endure quite a bit of physical abuse at the hands of teachers. Corporal punishment was commonly administered with a paddle across the backside or a ruler across the fingers for tardiness or talking in class.

“What happened to you? There is blood coming out of your ear!” shocked, Tilly’s mother yelled, when the nine-year-old returned from school one day.

“I couldn’t recite my catechism lesson for today, so the priest hit me,” Tilly explained.

“That idiot!” Tilly’s mother shouted so loud that her husband came into the kitchen to see what was going on. He was a huge man and easily roused to anger.

“I’m going to box his ears!” he yelled as he reached for his coat and walking stick.

“No, no! Please don’t do anything! You might end up in jail,” Tilly’s mother pleaded with him. He had already gotten in enough trouble at his railroad job over his drinking and violence. “I’ll take care of Tilly,” she added as he huffed out of the kitchen back to his work on repairing a broken chair.

Tilly remained at home for a couple of weeks and fell even further behind in school. Her illnesses and weakened condition often interfered with her education.

Long periods of oral disease due to the unsanitary conditions and malnutrition during World War I also weakened her, but she kept surviving. Her ears continued to trouble her. Though her body was weak, her will to live and her talents were strong. One particular incident was a clothing design contest which she had entered in school. Her drawings were selected as winners, but due to her family’s poverty, there was no follow-up training. In later years she often told me about the art teacher's disappointment that she could not enter the school which would develop her skills. At age 14, she had to leave school and work as an apprentice to Mrs. Lahr, a seamstress. Tilly proved to be very talented and learned to design her own patterns and make new clothes out of older ones.

At sixteen, Tilly discovered that her ears still hadn’t healed properly from the abuse. She had to have a mastoidectomy. (Before the advent of antibiotics, mastoid surgery used to be one of the most frequent surgeries performed.  Acute mastoiditis was common in those days and the treatment was a mastoidectomy to remove a cholesteatoma or a skin cyst in the ear.) She had barely recovered from that surgery when her lungs had become infected with another common problem of the times, tuberculosis. Several weeks in a sanitarium restored her health and talents but left her with scar tissue on her lungs and a medical record which haunted her for the rest of her days. Despite her illnesses, she diligently continued to practice her seamstress trade.

           

John

When John emigrated with his parents, Gottfried and Johanna, from Germany in 1924, he was only two years old. A mechanic by trade, John’s father knew that he could become rich in America where personally-owned motor vehicles were becoming commonplace. For several years, the small family lived in Texas, and John got a little brother, Werner.

Some relatives, who had immigrated before World War I, had established their new homes in agricultural Iowa. They urged, “Come on, Gottfried, we need good mechanics here. The weather is good. Lots of farming has become mechanized.”

Once again, Gottfried and Johanna packed up their little family for the move to Osage, Iowa.  Two more sons, James and Dean, were born there. John, the oldest, was expected to help with child care and other chores.

 “You make sure your little brothers don’t get hurt while I’m doing this laundry,” John’s mother chided.

 “But I hate to change Deanie’s crappy diaper,” Johnny wailed.

 “Look, I can’t do it all,” his mother yelled. “Dad is always busy in the garage, and I’m stuck with you four boys here in the house! Since you’re the oldest, you need to help!”

Fourteen-year-old John was hoping to get on the high school football team. “Dad, I’m going to need time after school to practice with the team.”

 “And I need you to come help in the garage after school! Werner is old enough to help your mother in the house now, so you’re going to come in after school to learn some real man’s skills! No more discussion!” Gottfried was adamant.

Obediently, John demonstrated for a whole year that he could become a good mechanic just like his dad. “Dad, please let me stay an hour after school at ball practice. I’ll work extra hard in the garage afterwards.”

His dad grumbled something about foolish games but grudgingly relented. “Okay, but you be here punctually at four thirty every day! And don’t forget your homework! A good mechanic needs to be good at math and other stuff.”

 “Yes sir!”

By the time John graduated from high school, he had earned football and baseball letters for his jacket but his mom and dad had never watched him play a single game. He resented their stubbornness about “stupid children’s games.” Even though he had also become a good mechanic, he did not want to continue to “help” in the garage. World War II had started, and he wanted to enlist.

 “Mom, Dad won’t sign my enlistment papers. I’m not quite eighteen, so I need a parent’s signature. Please, Mom,” John wailed.

 “Well, okay, but this is against my better judgment,” she warned. “You’re too young!”

 “Look, the war is going on right now! Lots of guys are enlisting. We need to win against the Japs and the Nazis! I know I can help by working on engines. Dad has taught me well!” John argued his case.

Johanna signed the paperwork, and that same afternoon John joined the Army Air Corps. He served honorably and participated in several military campaigns, such as the 1947 Berlin Air Lift while he was stationed at Rhein-Main Air Base in Frankfurt, Germany and a mysterious U.N. deployment to Palestine in 1948.

While he was attending a party in the NCO Club he met Tilly, my mother, who had come to Frankfurt to sew for some friends.

Lottie

This beautiful little girl was born to a young German couple, Otto and Kathe in 1925. There were never any brothers and sisters, so her parents idolized her. During her childhood, Germany was experiencing a period of prosperity and peace. The little girl grew into a beautiful young woman. Her father had honorably served in World War I, and World War II was far into the future.

Being a good student and obedient daughter were Lottie’s only two obligations. After she finished school around 1939, she was employed by the Frankfurter Allianz, the same firm where Jakob Simon was working. The two met at their jobs in the office briefly, but there was probably no opportunity for a relationship. Jakob, a married man and father of a young daughter, was drafted into the German Army soon after the invasion of Poland in the same year. Besides, Lottie had a boyfriend.

Lottie and her mother somehow managed to survive the air raids in Koblenz while her father, who had already served in World War I, had to serve again during World War II.

The sacrifices of her immediate and extended families proved to be nearly overwhelming. She lost her first love to the war. When the war was over, Lottie was rehired by the newly reestablished Allianz, but the poverty of the post-war years caused Lottie to become extremely vulnerable.

Parenting

The events of World War II ensnared these four young people in an inescapable net. After the war, Tilly, a poverty-stricken sick young woman, faced the choice between Jakob, a broken prisoner of war and John, a victorious military hero. She agonized over the choice and even tried to pull me into her decision.

 “Marianne, what shall I do?”

All I wanted was my mother to be happy. “Mutti, whatever you decide is fine with me.” I hinted that I would rather have them create a happy family with me as their main focus, but that was not to be. In the terrible post-war years Tilly and Jakob could not recapture their youthful ardor. I was sent to live with my grandparents. Their divorce was bitter, and their fight over me ended in both of them getting custody though I was not living with either one.

Reluctantly, though apparently very much in love, Tilly consented to marry John and follow him to America. She had to leave me in Germany because Jakob, my father, refused to release me. I lived with my grandmother for another year while Tilly, Jakob and John corresponded regarding my future.

The three of them finally decided that I could follow my mother to America under the following conditions: John was to pay for my transportation; Tilly was to pay for some new furniture for Jakob; Jakob was to pay 50 Marks a month into a trust fund that I would receive on my twenty-first birthday; I was to travel by ship—no airplanes! I was to write at least one letter each month to my father; Tilly and John were to ensure my getting a good Catholic education in America.

At age twelve, I was only vaguely aware of these conditions set up by my parents. Even though nothing could have kept me from joining my mother, the separation from my German family was quite traumatic for me. I was only thirteen when I left my beloved grandparents. For years I blamed myself for my grandfather’s broken heart. My mother didn’t tell me that he had gotten so drunk one night that he fell against a rock wall and died as a result of a terrible head injury.

In fact, my mother appeared to become a different person from the one I remembered. She had been my hero through the war years, but I was not prepared to be her submissive little girl. Expecting me to take up in America where we had left off in Germany, she was not prepared to deal with a rebellious teenager in the midst of culture shock. Somehow we bonded over the ensuing five years. My stepfather, my mother and I had managed to become a happy little family by the time we moved to Bermuda where I graduated from high school. When I met my future husband, a U.S. Air Force sergeant of Chinese descent, she surprised me with a ferocious bigotry and hypocrisy that had never surfaced before. In an effort to dissuade me from marrying this wonderful man, she told me outright lies about him and his family on several occasions. Our relationship was severely damaged, and I shed many a tear over the loss of a mother I never had.

Eventually, I returned to Germany as a married woman with four children. My U.S. Air Force husband was transferred to Bitburg Air Base, only twenty-five kilometers away from Trier where my father had moved with his new wife, Lottie.

Yes, once my father recovered from his shocking experiences in combat and as a prisoner of war, he was re-employed by the Frankfurter Allianz. He and Lottie began to date and were married in 1952. He had opened a branch agency of the Allianz in Trier and become quite prosperous. I had heard about him from other family members; however, I had not been in touch with him personally for years. The intervening years between the divorce and my arrival in Germany were a chasm I was reluctant to bridge. How would my Chinese husband and I be received? How would our four children be received? Did I really want to reopen old wounds?

I found his address in the phone book and sent him a postcard. He appeared at my door the next day. Within a few weeks we became truly father and daughter again. With his wife Lottie and my family, we spent many wonderful hours getting reacquainted while touring Trier and other Mosel towns as well as Luxembourg. We lived in a suburb of Trier, and I worked part time in his agency. He even bought me a used car to make getting to his home and office easier.

About a year after we moved to Germany, Tilly, my mother, came to visit. I was happier about my parents than I had been for a long time. Here they were both within my reach. Perhaps I could get them to meet and drop the vitriol that permeated every mention of “your father” or “your mother.” I should have known better. Neither one was interested in meeting the other. Instead my mother presented me with the paperwork from their long ago divorce and custody agreements.

 “Here, if you think your father is so great, you can get him to pay up!” she commented on the 50 Marks he was supposed to save up for me.

 “He bought me a car, and they are very good to me. Can’t we just let by-gones be by-gones?” I wondered.

 “Whatever!” my mother dismissed the thought. “Do whatever you want.”

 “It’s not up to me. Why didn’t you do something when I was twenty-one? You were in Germany then and that would have been the appropriate time, not now.” I argued.

 “I didn’t want to upset Daddy!” Daddy! That was how she referred to John whenever we referred to him. I remembered that she often, especially during my teen years, hurt my feelings in order to spare his.

 “Then why do you want to upset me?” I wondered. “I’ve tried my best to get along with all four of you, and if I start bringing up old stuff like this, I’ll be the one who has the most to lose,” I explained.

My mother finally realized that this subject had run its course. Carefully avoiding touching on any mention of Jakob and Lottie, we had a nice visit for a couple more weeks. Then she had to return to her home in California.

A couple of years later, in a tearful good-bye, my father promised that he would visit us in California after his retirement. His plan was to retire in three years, and I looked forward to his visit. As the time drew closer, his letters began to hint that he would never make the trip. He wrote about their cats that couldn’t be left alone and the vaccinations he didn’t want to take. He didn’t want to fly. Besides, his cough was getting worse.

In fact, his failing health was a legitimate reason for not traveling. He was hospitalized a number of times with lung problems. He wrote out a last will and testament, naming me the heir after they were both deceased. Lottie attested to the stipulation that she would not alter the will if he died first. All I wanted was for him to enjoy his life as much as possible, but she did not trust me.

One time during a phone call, he was explaining this last will and testament. Suddenly, I heard her scream in the background, “Watch out! After you’re dead, she’ll come over here with a bunch of lawyers!” I couldn’t believe my ears. Something like that was the last thing on my mind. My child-like heart loved my father not his money, but she didn’t believe that.

On Christmas Eve 1985 our whole family, including four little grandchildren were opening presents in the living room. The phone rang, and one of my daughters ran to answer it.

 “Mom, it’s a call from Germany!” Lisa yelled.

My heart jumped. “It’s my father wishing us a Happy Christmas!”

“No, it’s Tante Lottie,” said Lisa as she handed me the phone.

“Your father died this evening,” said Lottie without any emotion. I began to hyperventilate but kept myself under control in front of the children around me.

“What happened?” I asked.

“The doctor already yelled at me, and I don’t need you to yell at me, too,” she continued in a mechanical voice.

I was stunned. “I didn’t even know he was back in the hospital.”

She yelled, “You’re just like a cow. I just lost my husband, and you have nothing to say to me.” What did she want me to say?

All my bitterness about the broken promises surfaced, so I said, “Alright, now you can get yourself a younger husband and travel around Europe.” For the past couple of years through letters and phone calls I had gotten the idea that she was tired of taking care of my sick old father.

She screamed something and hung up on me. A few days later I received the postcard she had mailed several days before he died. In a few words, she explained that he was at home but under heavy medication for his lung problems. He got up in the night to go to the bathroom in the dark apartment. He stumbled over a bathroom rug and fell against the tub, breaking three ribs. One of the ribs punctured one of his weak lungs. He lived for ten days in a semi-conscious state and then died.

Ten Days! I was outraged. I could have gone to visit him. I could have phoned him. I could have let him know that I loved him. The beast waited until he was dead before notifying me! I didn’t know what to do with my anger. My husband and children did their best to keep me balanced, and eventually I was able to put the entire episode into perspective.

When I told my mother about this episode, she commented, “He really didn’t deserve to be treated like that. We loved each other once, but the war changed both our lives!”

Yes, the war not only changed many people’s lives, but it ended the lives of millions. I considered myself lucky. I was living life with all its ups and downs.

One of the worst experiences was yet to come.

My mother had been suffering for more than twenty years with rheumatoid arthritis. She and my stepfather were continuously attempting to find new doctors and new medical miracles to make her life more comfortable. They did not allow me to discuss the subject of health care. I was to stay out of their business. My mother often hinted that they would move closer to my home and our ever-growing family once “Daddy” retired, but that was just talk. Neither one of them had any intention of such a move. When my mother became too ill to make the eight-hour trip, we visited them several times a year.

During our last visit in July 1987 it was difficult to see my shriveled-up mother sitting in her wheelchair. Considering her condition, I thought it was a miracle that she was still alive. She was trying to finish the meal my dad had put on the attached tray, and we were just making small talk about the children and my college classes.

When she was finished eating, she pushed the tray forward a little and spilled a bit of the soup. I was trying to clean it up when my dad came in. He yelled “What the hell happened now?” and pushed the tray back into place.

Lifting her arm, my mother said, “I think you bumped my arm.” Blood was dripping from her elbow.

My dad yelled, “Jesus Christ, you’re more trouble than my sixteen kids!” I was rooted to my chair as I watched him tenderly clean her up and put her to bed. What in the world had just happened? I was stunned. His loud voice and his solicitous actions did not make sense. I had heard him make the “sixteen kids” comment before. My mother and I had always laughed at this joke.

When he left the bedroom, I went to my mother and asked her, “Does he treat you like that a lot? Do you want me to call your doctor?” I was prepared to pack her up and take her with me.

 “No, Daddy is so good to me. He just gets a little rough sometimes. Please don’t say anything!” I was speechless. Then she dismissed me, “I’m going to take a little nap right now.”

My husband was sitting in the living room while my dad was fussing around in the kitchen preparing dinner. My husband looked in surprise at my face, “What’s wrong?”

“Love, don’t ask. I can’t talk right now.” Then I laid my head in his lap and cried and cried for quite a while.

In fact, a couple of days later I cried all the way from Los Angeles to Fresno where we stopped to visit my husband’s mother. She noticed my sadness and made us tea.

Just six weeks later I answered the phone. It was my dad, “Marianne, your mother died. I found her not breathing, so I called 911. They worked on her for twenty minutes and brought her back a couple of times. When they took her away in the ambulance, I remembered that she had signed a Medical Directive with a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate). I followed the ambulance and gave them the paper at the hospital. They yelled at me about why I had them called them work on her then. I guess I just couldn’t let her go.” His voice kept breaking.

 “Dad, I don’t know what to say. We both loved her so much! It just wasn’t enough. She’s out of pain now.” After I hung up, I sat down and cried hot tears until my husband came home from work.

He had been at my side throughout all the ordeals with my four parents. After a big hug, he picked up a basketball and took me outside, “Let’s shoot some hoops,” he said.

The Aftermath

January 23, 1988

Somehow, I feel the need to make another entry in my Emotional Outbursts Journal. Today, I feel very confused and don't know whether to love or hate the world. There is so much sadness in me about my parents that I find it very difficult to believe that my own life has some kind of continuity.

My mother's eyes keep haunting me. I'm feeling very guilty about letting her down when my dad drew blood in a moment of domestic violence.

God, I'm so lost and alone. I feel that no one is ever going to understand me. The picture of my mother when my dad bloodied her elbow keeps hanging in front of my eyes whether they're open or closed.

My self-respect is completely gone. Right in front of my face, he had the nerve to treat her like that. He knew full well I wouldn't have the courage to do anything about it. How can I ever respect myself if I'm such a washrag that I let people do the most atrocious things right in front of me?  I've tried to tell people, but either they don't believe me, or they just don't want to deal with such a complicated situation. Even the doctor I went to, said glibly, "If that were MY mother, I'd have packed her up and taken her out of there.” Oh God, I wish I had. I don't think I'll ever forgive myself or my dad for that day. I even blame my mother because she should have gotten out of there a long time before it got so bad.

My whole foundation of existence has been shattered. I've always been a great believer in the law and right and wrong. Justice! Ha! When the chips were down, I was too cowardly to call someone for help.

I ask myself, “Marianne, what do you really want?” I want to know that my mother was just as worthy of constitutional rights as any other citizen. She became a citizen of the United States in 1951, and she lived a respectable life. I feel right now that she was killed, and therefore, I can't get any rest until someone besides me gets punished. Right now, I'm bearing the whole burden on MY shoulders. I can't bear it much longer.  I'm sinking in the flood! Please God, help me. I loved her so much, you know I did.

I think I've been a great disappointment to her from Day One, even though she always, always tried to make me believe that I was the most important thing in her life. I could never really believe it because she always made so many excuses for not living closer to me and our flesh and blood descendants.

Yet, the fact remains that I actually lived up to her expectations of establishing a nice big healthy family which she then did not participate in. That is what makes me so confused. “What did you really want from me, Mutti?” The tears are beginning to flow as I write this. I really am horribly mixed up about this. Here you are; I'm fifty years old, and you are dead. Will I ever be able to think coherently about the way things developed? I doubt it.

How could you live through the pain and horror of World War II and then when you finally had heaven on Earth, die? I guess, that's what's confusing me so much. Did you actually die because you no longer cared for us, or were you destroyed? If you were destroyed, should I, MUST I, avenge your death? Oh, Mutti, why didn't you leave me some clues, or better yet, why didn't you let me know how bad things were between you and Dad? Were you ashamed? Were you so drugged that you really couldn't see what was happening?

God, I'm going crazy! Not only my mother came to such a miserable ending that my own life is threatened, but my father also succumbed to forces which I don't really understand. Should I do something about his death? Why don't the two of you help me? You've opted out of life, didn't you? Isn't that what dying is? Opting out? Or is there really no choice? In that case, I'm dead, too. I do things; other people think I'm alive. But I'm dead.  No one that I know of believes that I have the right to make a case for my parents. After all, they were old when they died. Old people die. No one in their right mind would take anyone to court about the death of an old person. In this country people have the constitutional rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Maybe old people's pursuit of happiness includes death: Peace and quiet in a box six feet under; peace and quiet in the elemental atmosphere after cremation.

Too bad about me. I'm stuck with trying to untangle my emotions toward my mother's widower and my father's widow who in my opinion are the destroyers. They don't even know each other, but they acted as if they were part of a team that has the mission to make sure that my blood line disappears from the face of the Earth without a trace. Neither one of them ever wanted a child from my parents; however, I, as a reminder of my parents' potency, was in their way. I represented family life and dynamic growth, which neither my stepfather nor my stepmother wanted to participate in. They wanted, and probably needed, status quo—an unchanging picture of the world. My parents were not allowed to think or talk of participating in their child's life. They HAD to feel guilty whenever they thought of me because thinking of me made them think of each other. What makes me think of these things? Hints. Telephone conversations. My own imagination? I don't know. My mother's favorite line: I wish I could, but I can't because of Daddy—“Daddy!” My father was more subtle in his rejection of me; in fact, I'm not sure that he rejected me at all. He just didn't know how to bridge the gap: an entire ocean--the Atlantic.

Gosh, I hated being reminded of my father's shortcomings by my mother, and I hated being reminded of my mother's shortcomings by my father. But they seldom missed an opportunity to let me know just what kind of people I came from. Once in a while they would realize that they were hurting me with talk like that and then they would quickly say something nice like, “your father was so smart and I loved him, but...” Or, “one wife would have been enough for me, but...”

What am I talking about? I'm not making sense. Being misunderstood, even by myself; having my love for my family turned into something ugly and pathetic--something that belongs in an insane asylum-- is my greatest fear. My step-dad would like that. Then he could walk around and righteously declare himself to be the victim of a bunch of insane women. All three hundred and eighty condescending chauvinistic pounds of him.

I remember my people as a very strong race. My ancestors survived the barbarian hordes and great plagues in Europe (they must have; otherwise I wouldn't be here) and they survived the wars as well. They lived in comfortable and clean homes, made clothes, cooked meals, tilled the land, participated in social efforts, and generally believed in life itself. My mother lived until 1987; my father, until 1985. They had been strong in crises, so why did they die when there was no national emergency? Why did they weaken? Why do I feel that their deaths are a personal affront to me? They brought me into the world, made a great fuss over me when I was a cute little baby, and then disowned me when I became an adult. Was I at fault?  Was it me who killed them because I didn't share their enthusiasm in drugs and alcohol as an adult? Was it me who killed them because I shared my strength with others instead of concentrating on them? Was it me who killed them because I married out of my race? Was my presence on Earth their motivation to get out of life here? DID they disown me, or am I just feeling abandoned? I'm just guessing. Will I become the same way? I'm not that way yet, but I often have thoughts of the futility of trying to stay safe, sane and alive on this planet.

Hate. Hate and love. I feel them both. Since I am already dead, I can usually absorb my own emotions, so that is less of a problem for me than might be supposed. What really bothers me is my precarious position in American society. I have a family and there are laws here. Laws against murder. Courts which try and convict murderers. American prisons are full of people who have killed someone that society cares enough about to make a case for. My dilemma is my inability to decide whether my parents were murdered or whether they just died of old age. Should I come forward, hire a lawyer and accuse someone of killing them, or should I believe that they simply died of their own accord? Why did they become invalid? I know what I THINK, but I don't know how to ACT on that knowledge. I have a husband and children to consider before I can spend money to chase demons that may not exist. What would my family gain by me avenging my parents' deaths? What would my family lose by me avenging my parents' deaths? Money. Time. Hate. Love. Faith. Would their lives become more or less valid if I try to straighten out their heritage and inheritance? Maybe the spirits of my mother and father will help me decide when the time comes. I haven't buried them yet, and I don't think I'll be able to bury them for some time. When I do, I'll go with them.

December, 2010

Somehow, I’ve stepped back from the brink. I have finally become able to think, speak and write about my four parents, but I strongly believe that any child of a divorce would agree with me, “Four parents are too many.”

Many years ago, when I wrote my "Watermelon Letter" (see the first blog in this series) I realized the power of the written word. My writing skills were sadly lacking, but I made every effort to communicate in writing. When I started college classes in 1976, my world was turned upside down, and I began to write to people whom I thought to be important in earnest. 

I’LL CALL IT A HELICAR

            The mood of the country has changed subtly since September 11, 2001. An enemy turned America against itself and used American aircraft to destroy American life and property. We have become alert and suspicious. Our innocence is gone. Those with ugly intentions toward children have become more brazen; those with honorable intentions, more intense.

            Although none of my family was directly affected by the catastrophe of 9-11, my mind's eye goes back to a time when I saw something like this coming. The panic I experienced then almost cost me my life:

            More than thirty years ago I was a forty-year-old mother of four. Despite efforts to interest me in world politics on the part of my German father who had served in WWII, and the fact that my husband was a U.S. military man, I had no enthusiasm in political matters. All I knew was that I had absolutely no power to affect the decisions of those leaders who had their hands on the nuclear buttons, anyway. My attitude toward politics was, "Leave me alone and do what you want!" The idea of such powerlessness caused me some uneasiness about the future, but I had to find my personal raison d'être. I loved my family and didn't want it destroyed, so I cared for each child as if the future of the world depended on his or her survival. I loved America (warts and all) because I was free to do that here, so I gladly subjugated my own desires to the needs of my country. I had packed up and moved my home seven times in seven years. I gladly went where the Air Force sent us and eagerly restarted our routine. Suddenly, my simple patriotism and heart-felt love were shaken to the core: a professor I respected called me a “Cop-out.”

            My mind wandered back to my grandmother's place in German society before Hitler proceeded with his evil deeds. Could she possibly have affected the outcome of the holocaust if she had publicly expressed her private displeasure of the events of the time? She probably would have been dragged off to a concentration camp or even killed. She had no power then, just like I had no power now. Despair overwhelmed me, and I began to die.

            The faces of my family lost their smiles. Their only concern was that they might lose their wife and mother. They didn't worry about war, pollution, crime, or the energy crisis. They couldn't understand why those things meant anything to me. Their love healed my soul, and soon I was ready to take on the world.

            My choice of weapon was a typewriter. I had not learned to type very well in high school. When I was trying to type my first letter to a U.S. Senator, I started to cry after I had pulled the third messed up piece of paper out of the typewriter carriage. My ten-year-old son asked me innocently, "Why don't you just write it?" I knew that my penmanship wasn't much better than my typing, but I was immensely comforted by his naivete.

            Once I gained some confidence in my typing, spelling and composition abilities, I wrote letters to lots of important people. My main purpose in writing to manufacturers was to learn why or whether some things hadn't been tried in the solution of the energy crisis. The ensuing correspondence is the subject of this chapter.

            I’ve lost my copy of the original handwritten note that I sent to United Technologies on February 29, 1976, but it had something to do with building a vehicle on the principle of a motorized “Frisbee” for human transportation. At the time, I was sure that someone, somewhere was already developing such a vehicle, and I was merely curious. (Friends had confused me by telling me that we don’t know and won’t be told about the things that are being manufactured, but I couldn’t quite believe that a woman like myself—wife, mother of an American family, citizen and taxpayer—was to be kept in the dark).

            The answer I received convinced me that should pursue my quest for information a little further, but I had no idea that I would subsequently encounter so much opposition to a novel application of natural phenomena: centrifugal and centripetal forces. Nor was I prepared to encounter so many confusing interpretations of my question:

            “Is someone, somewhere working a ‘Flying Saucer’ made on Earth? And, if not, why not?”

...And the Writing Goes On.....

                                                            Introduction

 

            Here we are in 2002. The mood of the country has changed subtly since September 11, 2001. An enemy turned America against itself and used American aircraft to destroy American life and property. We have become alert and suspicious. Our innocence is gone. Those with ugly intentions toward children have become more brazen; those with honorable intentions, more intense.

 

            Although none of my family was affected by the catastrophe of 9-11, my mind's eye goes back to a time when I saw something like this coming. The panic I experienced then almost cost me my life.

 

            More than twenty-five years ago I was a forty-year-old mother of four. Despite efforts to interest me in world politics on the part of my German father who had served in WWII, and the fact that my husband was a U.S. military man, I had no enthusiasm in such matters. All I knew was that I had absolutely no power to affect the decisions of those leaders who had their hands on the nuclear buttons, anyway. My attitude was, "Leave me alone and do what you want!" The idea of such powerlessness caused me some uneasiness about the future, but I found my personal raison d'être. I loved my family and didn't want it destroyed, so I cared for each child as if the future of the world depended on his or her survival. I loved America (warts and all) because I was free to do that here, so I gladly subjugated my own desires to the needs of my country. I packed up and moved my home seven times in seven years. I always went where the Air Force sent us and restarted our routine. Suddenly, my simple patriotism and heart-felt love were shaken to the core.

 

            The following story chronicles the way my personal life and the life of America have interacted since the mid-seventy's.  

 

            Once my husband was retired from the military, we settled down in a nice suburban community. All the kids were in school and my husband worked at a second job, so I decided to take some classes at the local community college. I wanted to improve on my English and perhaps learn to write. Some professors actually taught me practical skills, but some professors made me question my own attitude toward life on Earth. A general anxiety about "crises" seemed to pervade every lecture: the energy crisis, the education crisis, the drug war, the health care crisis, etc. etc. When I tried to express my thoughts in an assigned essay, I was accused of being a "cop-out." What had I neglected to do? Was I really a "cop-out?" How could little old me possibly change the world? Hadn't I already done enough for the country? I was a simple housewife with no other mission than to support my family. What else was I supposed to do?

 

            My mind wandered back to my grandmother's place in German society before Hitler proceeded with his evil deeds. Could she possibly have affected the outcome of the holocaust if she had publicly expressed her private displeasure with the events of the time? She had no power, just like I had no power. Despair overwhelmed me, and I began to die.

 

            The faces of my family lost their smiles. Their only concern was that they might lose their wife and mother. They didn't worry about war, pollution, crime, or the energy crisis. They couldn't understand why those things meant anything to me. Their love healed my soul, and soon I was ready to take on the world.

 

            My choice of weapon was a typewriter. I had not learned to type very well in high school. When I was trying to type my first letter to a U.S. Senator, I started to cry after I had pulled out the third messed up copy. My ten-year-old son asked me innocently, "Why don't you just write it?" My penmanship wasn't much better than my typing, but I was immensely comforted by his naiveté.

 

            Once I gained some confidence in my typing, spelling and composition abilities, I wrote letters to lots of important people. My main purpose was to learn why or whether some things hadn't been tried in the solution of the energy crisis. I also wanted to know why or whether there were so many people dying in convalescent hospitals (contrary to the implication in their name) despite our excellent medical advances. The ensuing correspondence is the subject of this book.

 

            I also continued to take college courses and eventually earned a degree from UCBerkeley and California teaching credentials. I am currently teaching Special Education at a local middle school. My four children have grown into wonderful healthy adults with families and homes of their own. My husband is fully retired and enjoying lots of golf. Life is good, I think.....

 

           

How I Became Enthusiastic About Publishing my First Book

 

Ever since my Watermelon Letter, I wrote lots of letters about issues I considered important.  I also wrote short stories about my life for my children and grand-children. I earned a degree in English and became a teacher, but I had never seriously considered writing and publishing a book.

 

After I retired from teaching in public schools, I volunteered at the Senior Center as a computer tutor. Even though I now had time, I still didn’t think I’d ever enter the publishing world.

 

Then two incidents inspired me to think about publishing a book.

 

One day eighty-year old Ruth approached me at the senior center about helping her write a book. She wanted to write about her family memories and produce a physical book as a present for all the folks who would be attending the family reunion the following year. She had a vague idea of the contents—stories and pictures—and needed help in putting it all into a coherent whole. I gave her a few tips on the spot and told her to contact me when she was ready to let me proof-read and edit her manuscript. For six months I didn’t hear from her, so I thought she had given up on her project. Then one day, she called me. She was ready to put the book together. Her stories had been written and the vintage black and whites had been sorted.

 

For a couple of months we worked on editing the text and scanning and placing the pictures for final printing at a local printshop. We were both pleased with the result, and her family reunion was a great success with the addition of Ruth’s “Strolling Down Memory Lane.”

 

Then there was Alice, also eighty. We met frequently at the Elks Lodge where our husbands were members. She occasionally mentioned the manuscript she had written and submitted to a publisher years ago. Because she had received a rejection from the publisher, she just let it languish in her files. One day, I asked her why she didn’t just publish it herself with one of the Internet vanity publishers. At least it would be a physical book that could be given to her children and grandchildren. Alice thought that was a pretty good idea.

 

A couple of weeks later, she called me to tell me that she’d signed a contract with one of those publishers but that she’d need some help with formatting the manuscript and uploading it. I gladly agreed to help. Within a few weeks we celebrated her beautiful book, a young adult fantasy, called “White Hole in Space.”

 

After I helped these two elderly ladies publish their books, I thought, “If I can help others publish a book, I should be able to help myself publish one.” I gathered all the stories I’d written for my children and started sorting them chronologically. I filled in missing chapters and added my correspondence regarding nursing homes and contracted with a vanity publisher.

 

My memoir, “The Little Girl That Could” was published in 2009 at considerable expense. In 2010, I spent more money publishing “Mindpieces,” a collection of unrelated shorter pieces that range from whimsical poetry to serious political letters and fictionalized family lore. 

 

These two expensive books were followed by two self-published books, “Banking, Bowling and Beethoven” and “Maria Lives!” I chose CreateSpace.com, an Amazon company, for the printing and distribution of these books. Over the past two years, I’ve also written and illustrated three children’s books based on my childhood in post-WWII Germany.

 

Taking Action and Writing About It Becomes Easier

After my “Cop-out” experience I decided not to return to college; instead, I decided to devote some time to doing something more productive in the community.

An opportunity presented itself when I heard the then Governor of California, Jerry Brown, (1976) on the radio asking listeners to visit residents in nursing homes or other institutions. That sounded wonderful to me. For a year and a half, I spent lots of time and effort in a local convalescent hospital.

Because of my observations and experiences there, I was among the registered students at Solano College again the following year. This time, I presented a paper regarding convalescent hospitals to a professor that earned me an A.

The paper was in a fictionalized story of my experiences at La Mariposa. As narrator, I told the story about a woman called Rosemary in a story called “The Sudden Activist.” I had not intended to be an activist; I just wanted to be useful in the community. After one whole year of being welcomed by both the staff and the patients several days a week, the administration changed. With that change, I became an unwelcome nuisance by the new staff. The patients still wanted me to visit, so I endured an increasingly tense relationship with the staff, especially because I fought back in writing.  I gathered a series of correspondence that became the basis of an expository essay which I submitted to a History Class.

One of the skills I had learned in English classes in previous years was that a writer does not have to use the word “I” all the time. It is possible to be a narrator and put oneself into a story as just another character.

The experience of thinking myself a “cop-out” had made such an impression on me that it was logical to write out this story in the third person singular. The Marianne who endured the sting of criticism from an authority figure was not the same Marianne who loved her family. Writing in this style was one way to separate myself from the event.

In fact, writing had become very therapeutic for me. As my family continued life at work and school, I remained vigilant. Although I no longer felt panicky or in imminent danger, my responsibilities as a mother of an American family were clearly in focus now. I kept a close eye on news events, especially those of a political nature, and sent lots of questions to the people who made confusing or contradictory statements. It was clear to me that a mother of an American family should not be misinformed or misled.  I wrote lots of letters to various corporations and agencies in my quest for the truth and eventually regained my sense of humor and peace of mind.

As a realist,  I knew that I could not depend on the media to give me the straight truth about nutrition, medical care, national defense, and a variety of other subjects relevant to the well-being of my family. I wrote personal letters that got actual responses and investigated locally as much as possible rather than gather knowledge out of books at school. I viewed my time at La Mariposa as a chance to see just how much impact good nutrition, and especially a laugh or two, would make on the overall health of a person.

Was I ever surprised!

A cop-out? Me? Never again!

This essay was written in 1976

 

 

My essay in response to an assignment in “Mass Communications” earned a “B” with the hand-written comment “this is an elaborate cop-out.”

 

            "Every time I am asked to write a review I feel like Sancho Panza being asked to become Don Quixote. I am realistic enough to recognize the powers that be, my status as one of the masses, and my desire to enjoy whatever I'm allowed to have. Occasionally I am outraged at a piece of trash or delighted by a true work of art; however, to strike at individual creations within the system goes against the principles I hold most dear.

 

            I doubt that any other form of government has ever granted its citizens so much freedom of expression. The individual in the United States is limited only by his own abilities or motivations. Granted, the opportunities have not always been equitable, but this is largely the result of man's inhumanity to man rather than of legal obstacles. Most important is the right to express one's hopes, fears or dissatisfactions; the quality of each expression is secondary and subjective.

 

            The media are, of course, tools of a government by which to control or "mediate" the masses. This control may range from absolute propaganda reinforced by violence to the dissenters to absolute freedom of expression circumscribed only by the tastes of the audience. All the nations of the world subscribe to some form of control consistent with their political convictions. In the People's Republic of China the news media as well as entertainment media are highly nationalistic and designed to instill certain attitudes in the masses. I shall reserve my judgment (or lack thereof) on the merits of such a system, though I know that it can be only as "good" as its leader.

 

            Under Hitler I personally experienced what it is like to live with highly controlled media. Even though I was very young I sensed that something was amiss when Hitler was screaming through our black table model radio, and I saw my parents wide-eyed with fear one minute and disagree in hushed voices the next. Opinions were never openly expressed, and many of my questions were met with evasions. All music was of the nationalistic type and large rallies were held to arouse the masses. Children were popular entertainers reciting very inspiring new poems. I made my debut at age four at a firemen's dinner-dance with a poem about Hitler's "Eagle’s Nest" in the Alps. I remember my family treasuring books from the pre-Hitler days. They had been hidden during the collection of books which had been declared "verboten". Those books published in that era were total propaganda, and, as I recall, very dull to a young enquiring mind. It is difficult for me to imagine to what extent these media might have influenced my mind if Hitler had not been stopped in his insanity. Somehow I believe that my mind would have remained my own as it has under the influence of the opposite extreme of nearly unrestrained media.   

 

            In our political system it suits the government to let the masses be opiated by the relatively harmless daily fare of television. Those that have a little (or a lot) of talent can become the entertainers or the financiers and the rest of us are the audience. This does seem to be the ideal way to keep the masses happy and in line. Should the masses overreact to the freedom and get out of line, the government would soon control the media by regulation or strangulation.

 

            The real value of this system is that it also gives the dissenters freedom of expression. Those that see wrongs being committed by the government or other factions can use any medium to persuade others to their points of view. Those that wish to make financial profits may also use the media to entertain. This gives rise to wide choice of media, from live entertainment of the rawest kind to mild comic books; from classical music to "payola" recording companies, from underground newspapers to sophisticated textbooks.

 

            As a member of the masses I appreciate the opportunity to choose according to my own tastes; I also appreciate the efforts of others, be they financially or altruistically motivated. While I can tell the difference between what I like and don't like, I feel totally unqualified to judge on the value that one person's offering may have to another person. It is particularly difficult for me to take an isolated book, television program, magazine or movie, criticize its statement, and evaluate its influence on the masses because I see each as an example of a priceless freedom.

 

            I only hope that I may always be free to choose for myself how I should be informed and entertained and that wiser people than I are allowed the opportunity to voice their opinions in any medium whatever."

 

            The professor’s comments started a chain reaction within my brain that very nearly cost me my life. I looked up “Cop-out” in the dictionary and found that it was someone who doesn’t do what he should do. This was my turning point: I promised myself I would never be a cop-out again!

 

            When I say that being called a "cop-out" nearly killed me, I'm being completely truthful. I tried to please everyone around me by meeting their needs. I had taken my duties as homemaker, student and tutor far too seriously. Also, since my figure had become somewhat matronly, I began to diet myself into a skeletal shadow of my former self and refused any kind of food or medical help. Within a few weeks at this pace, all I could do was sleep for hours and stay up for a few minutes at a time. When I was at the point of death, my husband sat sadly by my bedside and listened to my incoherent whisperings. Suddenly I felt a rush of warmth throughout my person. For a moment I was stunned. Then I said, "I'm going to take a shower." Then I got up, took a shower, ate a decent lunch and took up life where I had left off.

 

            I decided to write a rebuttal and deliver it to the professor in person.

 

            "Mr. Siegel,

            I fail to see that my paper was an elaborate cop-out. To the contrary, if I had reviewed someone else's creation just to get a grade, I would have to consider myself a cop-out! I probably could have pretended to be sufficiently critical to suit you, but that would have compromised my principles. I tried to demonstrate in my paper how I feel about mass media, and if I failed to do that, I deserve an "F". Talk about copping out! Instead, I got a "B" and few snide remarks, such as, "Are you serious?" You bet I am! Deadly serious! The very reason for my attending school, and the mass media class in particular is to attain the skills needed to make a judgment or a contribution. Right now, I don't even know exactly what I have in mind, but I do know that any improvement of the world must start with me improving myself. With that I do not mean to say that I don't care what anyone else does; quite the opposite, I care, I care, I care. As a matter of fact, I see clearly the injustices, the misinformation, and the infinite examples of man's incredible ineptitude.

            I also see my own limitations and my potential. I am not an expert in sociology, psychology, anthropology or any other kind of ...ology. I am, however, gradually expanding my knowledge. By attending your class I had hoped to gain an insight into the workings of mass media; instead I found myself listening to various and sundry opinions of other students. Valuable class time was spent discussing the relative merits of "Jaws", bantering small talk about "Engelbert Humperdinck", or whether or not Susan Carpenter "thinks so, too." I learned one thing from this class, though, and that is, if one can appear to have all the answers even before the questions are asked, one is considered qualified. I'm not sure what you consider an "A" paper, since it is obviously not based on anything presented in class. Oh, oh, I can feel myself getting carried away...I digress!

            You asked me if I was serious. The answer is yes, I feel very strongly about the power of communication. Every culture (or form of governing) must somehow communicate with constituents. A totalitarian system uses the media to tell its members what they must do to survive. Its leaders suppress any attempts at two-way communication because they recognize the power of language. Once released, this power changes the masses into people: talking, writing, and thinking people. This same power of language is accepted and practiced in our culture. I have not denied it. In fact, I am aware that our culture is a dynamic entity. We are members of a society which, as a whole, is greater than its individual parts. This society or culture is not a finished product; it is a living, and as such mortal, being. Each member has a responsibility to use self-respect, self-restraint, and self-discipline to prevent the destruction of the culture. All this sounds very idealistic, and it is. That is precisely my point.

            Unfortunately or fortunately, we are all human and as such subject to human weaknesses, the seven sins: greed, avarice, etc. If we somehow corrupt our culture through our two-way communications, there can be only one foreseeable outcome. Someone will have to protect us from ourselves. This protection may take on some very unpleasant forms.

            Alright, so where does that leave me? Am I to be totally despairing or blithely optimistic? Should I start at the top and work down or start with myself and work my way outward?

Sincerely, Marianne

            I got an A for the course!

 

            Yes, the power of the word was impressive! I had found a new weapon with which to fight the world!  For the next few weeks I wielded my weapon so much that I nearly drove my husband and children to distraction. Fortunately, my habit of practicing logic and calm in a storm throughout my life prevailed and pulled me back from the brink. Instead of simply throwing words around, I began to write letters to people I considered experts on various subjects. I asked them questions rather making statements. I received lots of answers. Sometimes a lengthy correspondence developed; at other times, one sharp response sufficed.

 

            One particulary interesting set of letters ensued after I asked a cardiologist, “What is the human heart?”