Creepy things my dad did/said

If my dad were anyone else, I would think he were a pedophile, based on some of the things he has said, done…

No-Daddy Lane

One day dad came home and told me about an experience he had. He was driving his motorbike around town, when he saw a bunch of children playing. They were ethnic children, in a poor part of town. He took one of the girls for a ride on his motorbike, and returned her home. He related the conversation that he had had with her.

“This is no-daddy lane!” The girl said, “Because none of us have daddies.”

Dad related the story with feigned sadness in his voice (but more elation/fascination). “I think I was able to give that girl a taste of what it’s like to have a daddy, by giving her a ride on my motorbike.”

Yes, that actually happened. My dad took some random girl off the street for a ride on his motorbike and got away with it. He thought he was doing a good thing.

Another thing I notice about this memory is that dad related the conversation as though he were speaking to an adult. This is a major tell of pedophiles: they speak to children as equals and peers. 

Child on his lap

My dad related an experience he had at church one day. My dad became dissatisfied with the church he lead us to (after causing a church-split in the first church in town he brought us to) and so at this time he was at his third church in town. This church was an ethnic church. A white pastor was speaking. This was the pastor that was mentoring me at the time, and I believe that my parents were jealous/envious of the role this man was playing in my life. The pastor was (apparently) speaking at length about the history of his ethnic group, as they travelled across Europe and then came to the New World. My dad became infuriated, and his heart beat faster. 

“There was a child sitting on my lap,” dad recounts, “and he said, ‘wow, John, your heart sure is beating fast!’” 

Apparently, my dad put up with it as long as he could, then stood up and caused a scene, denouncing the pastor for talking about his ethnic origins, in an ethnic church. The pastor apparently responded, and there was a brief exchange of words. 

That whole scene is a whole other can of weirdness to unpack someday. It has caused me some anxiety: will my dad show up one day to try to derail one of my sermons? If so, how would I respond?

But more to the point of today’s topic: why was there a child sitting on my fathers lap? And why was this chid so cuddled in that he could hear my dad’s heart beating? The way that my dad mentioned it it seemed like a common occurrence. Like this was always happening: like he commonly held children on his lap. And as I think of it, he did always go towards children, and often they ended up on his lap, and “snuggled” (entangled?) in a deep bear hug.

Tickling

My dad loves to tickle. I hate it. I hate it, hate it, hate it. My wife cannot understand this, but has learned to respect it. I have told her over and again that when she tickles me, it awakens something inside that is ugly. I almost want to hit her. It is powerful, and very involuntary. It scares me, almost.

Why is this?

My dad loves to tickle children. 

As I try to think of a time when he tickled me, I cannot think of one. But I do remember when a friend’s dad grabbed my knee very hard, and sent “tickle” sensations through my body. I remember the discomfort of that, and how it made me feel trapped and vulnerable. It was very scary and somewhat violating to have my body stimulated like that, when I did not want it to be. I did not want to be tickled. This incident did not lead anywhere, but it is my memory’s way of remembering “bad tickling.”

When I would try to raise a question with my dad — especially as a young chid — about some injustice, or something that I was bothered about, my dad would often tickle me. This would get me laughing, and I couldn’t help it. Sometimes, I would forget what I was talking about, and just wrestle. But more often, as I grew older, I would turn away and leave in tears. Rather than listen to me, my dad would try to control me through stimulating my body into making me happy.

Why does this fit here? I am not entirely sure. 

I think because tickling, for my dad, was about control of the body of someone else. 

He was always one of those ticklers that tickled way too much, and would not stop when you said “stop.” There was something "wrong" about how he tickled myself, and how he tickles other children..

Drama trip

My mind seems to want to include an incident from drama here. We were driving home from a drama event with a van full of teens. One girl was being especially loud and silly. Typical teenage-girl sort of stuff. All of a sudden, out of the front seat, my dad exploded in rage at her. Called her names (I’ve blocked them out) and told her to shut up, shut up, shut up!!! It was horrifying. When he stopped, the girl began to sob in pain and confusion, and the van was silent. 

Then, my dad must have felt remorse, because a weak small voice came from the front seat, calling her name. His hand tried to creep along the ceiling, like a sad and forlorn snake, looking for a home to lie. 

She “freaked out,” and began flailing, hitting the back of his seat. “Don’t touch me!” She yelled at him, over and over. 

Even then, I thought that she had the right response to him. 

Adopted sister

It is with heaviness that my mind turns to my adopted sister. She was my cousin (daughter of a woman that my grandmother adopted, who was FAS, and addicted to substances, and unable to care for her own children). After being raised for a time by another aunt, my parents decided to adopt her. 

Most of my memories are of her as a teenage. Thinking of her potentially being abused by my dad at this time was the disturbing possibility that I raised in my first journal article, where I dared to think that my dad could be capable of this.

But now, my mind is drawing me back earlier. Before — long before — the adoption, we sometimes had my adopted sister (let’s call her “Courtney”) for a summer, while her adoptive mother/aunt “took a break.” There is a very vivid memory that seems relevant.

It is clothed in some shame, but that is less, since I have renounced shame. 

Courtney had been sick, and had a fever. I went into her room to pray for her. Around the age of ten, I was very into prayer and believed very strongly in miracles. She was tossing and turning from the fever, and was wearing only underwear. Since i was pre-pubescent, and because she was my sister, this did not bother me. I did not think anything of it, and placed my hand on her side to pray for her. (It seemed more powerful to touch someone when praying for healing). I remember that her skin felt very hot, due to the fever. As soon as I touched her, she went limp. Limp is not quite the right word. Neither is stiff. She went passive. Her eyes took on a look of, “what are you going to do to me?” It is hard to describe. I knew that she would not resist me if I did something to her: but I didn’t even know what that meant. I instantly felt extremely awkward. I mumbled out my prayer and left the room. 

Why did I feel so awkward in that moment?

As I write this I realize…she was lying in mom and dad’s bed. I have searched and searched my mind. Is it possible? Was she sleeping with mom and dad? 

Well, let’s see. There were only two rooms upstairs. Or were there three? I almost want to go  back, to ask if I could see the house. Or maybe walk to it through the forest in the back. Were there three rooms upstairs, or two?

If there were only two, where did she sleep? Is that when my parents built the rooms in the basement? I know that for a while, all three of us slept in one room. Why was she in my parents’ bed? I remember that she was using the thin duvet cover from their bed as her blanket. Why would she be in that bed, if she were sick, unless she slept there often?

The vent

When we built rooms in the basement, there was a vent in the ceiling of my room that lead into my parent’s room. 

“I can’t have that vent there,” my dad said, “Then Ishmael could hear us. And I need more privacy than that.” 

I was surprised by that statement. Was that a reasonable thing to say? I suppose it was. I would not want my sons eaves-dropping in my bedroom. 

But was there something more sinister going on as well?

Drama drips

A final thought (being called away to supper) is that there was something off about how my dad related to girls on the drama teams. I do not suspect molestation. But there seemed to be emotional links forged. Even just in his way of droppig the tone of his voice slightly, and looking directly in their eyes while speaking. Making some feel awkward, some…feel loved? “A father figure”?

But afterwards, their relationships seemed awkward. In some cases, he ended up enmeshed in their married relationships.

Maybe just poor boundaries…maybe something worse. I am not sure..