[TW: mention of child sexual abuse]
With over 34 million adults in the US having experienced childhood abuse, church abuse remaining underreported, with over 6,000 Catholic clergy members credibly accused of sexual abuse and 2,458 priests involved in allegations of child sexual abuse, and the recent surge in podcasts exploring leaving high-demand religions presents an opportune moment for memoirs on rediscovering oneself after such experiences.
Introducing ‘Redeemed’ by Penny Lane (She Writes Press, June 25) – a poignant memoir of redemption. From being torn from her home by a Hungarian father she doesn’t know to enduring abuse and neglect from a stepmother, Penny’s journey leads her to another form of captivity: fundamentalist Christianity. It’s a tale of resilience against abuse, trauma, and oppressive odds, navigating both family and religious turmoil to ultimately find her way home.
We are fortunate to be featuring an except from ‘Redeemed’ below, shared with permission.
Chapter One: Losing Home
The man kissing me told me he was my father, but I did not know him. His face was rough and scratchy, and his smell unfamiliar. His sloppy kisses soon turned into hugs as he babbled away in a foreign accent that I did not recognize, acting as if he knew me. I didn’t want him to kiss me but did not know how to tell him to stop. I tried to pull away, but he was too big, and I didn’t stand a chance. My throat closed up, and I couldn’t talk.
The year was 1963. I was four years old. Before this strange man walked down my driveway, I had been plum happy sitting on my red tricycle, scanning the neighborhood for someone to play with. I had a great life in a big, brown two-story house in Linden, New Jersey, with lots of yard on a shady, tree-lined street. We had a long, wide driveway on which I could ride back and forth all day or play hopscotch with my cousins.
I lived with my Aunt Charlotte and Uncle George and their kids, Georgie, and Alex. Living downstairs were my Uncle Buddy and Aunt Mary and their brood, Maggie, Rebecca and Ted. We had neighbors next door who were old but still nice, and there were lots of kids and fun on our street. I fit right in.
“Penniké,” the new man called out enthusiastically, grinning with his funny teeth. He kept calling me Penniké, though my name was Penny, and he called me another funny word, csillagom.
Just then, Aunt Charlotte came outside in her going-to-town dress and began talking to this man like she knew him. She did not seem surprised by his presence, or his odd words, which made my stomach queasy. She looked at me with eyes I could not read, then quickly looked away.
The street was quiet, except for the grown-ups talking, and it was hot. My clothes were starting to itch and stick to my back, making me even more uncomfortable. After a while, my aunt hunched down to me, her soft, tender eyes at my level. She smiled as she stroked my cheek, but I could sense that she was having a hard time of it, her smile cracking into a sad face.
“Precious,” she said, “this is your father, and he’s come to take you home.”
What? I thought to myself. I had never seen him before in my life.
Home? I was already home. This was where we had birthday parties and ice cream, where we kids played hide-and-seek and chased fireflies in the backyard at night. I had always lived here, and I did not like this stranger. Aunt Charlotte held my hand as she and the man started walking way too fast toward a car parked at the curb. I dragged my feet and pulled back, but Aunt Charlotte tugged me along with a force that I had not experienced with her before.
I let go of my tricycle and hoped it would not tip over. What was going on? And why was this man carrying the suitcase I had seen in the kitchen that morning? As I looked back at the house, I saw my cousins Georgie and Alex in the front window, watching. I looked up at the adults talking to each other over my head, but I could not make out the words. Something was very wrong.
In the car, a man waited for us in the driver’s seat. He smiled and handed me a beautiful teddy bear, which calmed me down a little. Maybe this was not so bad. The driver’s eyes were kind, and he held my gaze for a few moments, as if to communicate some sort of comfort, but did not say anything. As we got in the car, the driver spoke to my father, but their words were in a funny language, and I did not get any of it.
I sat in the backseat with Aunt Charlotte, who continued holding my hand. She told me we were going to see Uncle George at the train station. My Uncle George was a ticket agent for the Pennsylvania Railroad, a glamorous-sounding job to me. But we’d never visited him at the train station before.
As we pulled away from my home, I looked back at my tricycle left in the driveway. Aunt Charlotte held me close, her arm around my back. The two men in the front seat were still conversing in their strange language. Sometimes I heard them mention that name, Penniké.
I could tell by the struggle on her face that my aunt was getting ready to say something and was choosing her words carefully. “Precious, your mother died when you were a baby,” she told me gently. She said she had taken me in, and I had been living with her and her family ever since.
“You were too young to remember,” she said.
My head and throat were starting to hurt, and I became dizzy. I had always thought that Aunt Charlotte was my mother and that Uncle George was my father and that I was part of their family. Why hadn’t anyone told me?
I kept quiet. There was a lot of chatting among the adults the rest of the way to the train station, but I was still reeling from what Aunt Charlotte had told me. Why did my mother die? Would Aunt Charlotte die? Would I die, too? I held on to Aunt Charlotte’s hand for dear life. I looked at the two men in the front of the car as if in a dream, wondering how they got there. My eyes filled up. I could not speak.
When I gazed up toward Aunt Charlotte, I noticed that she was biting her lip as she looked out the window, and there were tears in her eyes, too. Soon, we got to the station, and she squeezed my hand.
“I’ll be right back, Precious,” she said, not looking back at me. In a flash, she was out the door, disappearing into the crowd before I could say anything or muster the courage to run after her. She never looked back.
In that moment, I had no way of knowing that my carefree, happy life was about to turn into a nightmare I could never have imagined. That I was being ripped from my loving home into a world full of fear, neglect and abuse that would take decades to escape. That I was about to become an unwanted alien, lost in a cold, foreign home, and a powerless scapegoat lacking any sense of self or worth, one that not even God could save.
Until I finally broke free and found a way to stand on my own.
In the car, the two men in the front seat remained silent as we drove away. I waited nervously for Aunt Charlotte to come back. But it would be more than fifty years before I saw her again.
Penny Lane is a writer, wife and mother originally hailing from Jackson Heights, Queens. She has a BS in business and management from the University of Phoenix and an MA in industrial/organizational psychology from Golden Gate University. In her spare time, she helps underserved youth learn to read, apply to college, and find jobs once they graduate, and in food pantries and other non-profits near her home in Mill Valley, California. Find out more at her website here.
