Ramblings of a Survivor

The heat of the August air was squeezing through my toes, wrapping itself around my ankles, as I took the first steps onto Bright Avenue toward Wardman Street that would lead me to the Rock at Whittier College. It was the DAY — the day after an incredibly tumultuous year of existing in another new experience of “freedom” that my childhood pysche knew as “the world.” I’d figured some things out since emerging into this existence without the structure of the Church. I was clad in neatly ironed Gap khakis and a white polo shirt; my long hair pulled up into a tight clamp. My older siblings, Colin and Hannah, had moved me into my tiny little studio apartment that was absolutely perfect for me: its itty bitty, two burner stove and mini sink was perfect for adapting to the big city that the Los Angeles area was affording me. I’d re-invetned sheets as curtains and been lucky enough to have found several pieces of furniture that I’d refinished to make a home. Now it was time.

Life after living in Hungary was confusing. Nah, not confusing…new. And new and confusing seem to me, as I remember it now so many years later — one and the same.

I had come back from being held captive in Budapest, feeling so damn upside down and inside out – yet focused: focused in a way that only nausea and fever make you feel focused. For 14 months I had had one purpose: Get OUT. Then, I was out. I was OUT. I could do what I wanted…what ever I could make happen could happen…and I was doing that: making shit happen.

On a cold night in early November, I had snuck out of the cramped Pest apartment, used the phone card I had stolen forints for…called dad – and with more than a little bit of surprise – Dad had done it. He’d gone into the pastor’s office, said, “My daughter has to come home.” And a string of events had unfolded, leading to a flight home – purchased on my 19th birthday – and another of my friends was able to get out of the situation and we had flown home. I HAD ESCAPED; I’D COME HOME….April and I were home.

Only…I didn’t belong there either….

I’d been steadfast in my goal: live outside of the church: exist outside of the church. And then a bigger dream: be educated. From the time I was…well, before I could remember…my Grandfather, the vice president of Hughes Aircraft Satellite division, had told me that I was going to be the first female president….like it was a fact. It WAS what I would be. I mean, who wouldn’t get behind my story?

Only…I didn’t know anything about anything, let alone how to run a country.

I’d studied and written my essays so I could get into college…but I hadn’t ever learned about reproductive science…even the images in my history book that depicted statues that Michaelangelo had created were blocked out because they showed human anatomy…

Law. that’s what I wanted. I wanted to be in the Senate – not quite POTUS like Grandpa Tom envisioned me being, but I was gonna make a difference. Mom and Dad had supported me in that goal – even though they were struggling with guilt from decades of the torture they had put me and my siblings through… Our family had left behind the beliefs that said Donald Abbott was God. We’d done it- TOGETHER we had left. TOGETHER we had changed the course of our lives. Sure, mom had disappeared for 9 months…I’d survived mind numbing control…I’d found my way out only to be date-raped at Sewanee…Dad was in his own world – one that said he had never been complicate to the abuse…Mom was consumed by her own guilt and need for healing…my siblings and I were struggling to figure life out…but we were on the right path….we were “conquering the world.”

Conquering the world, one tight Gap shirt at a time.

The time between November 1995 and arriving at Whittier in the fall of 1998 had been quite frankly, awful – rife with grief and struggle and everything that the church had told me it would be: pain, betrayal, confusion, all of it….but..for crying outloud — I was wearing pants. I WAS FUCKING WEARING PANTS AND NOT A SKIRT AND MY ESSENCE WASN’T ANY DIFFERENT THAN IT WAS WITH LONG PLAITED HAIR AND HOMEMADE SKIRTS!!!!!!

Sewanee. That blessed, cursed place. Sewanee — the reverent UNIVERSITY OF THE SOUTH — gave me something that it never knew it would or could give me. Sewanee had taken my SATs and my entrance essay and seen it as ENOUGH….even though the church school hadn’t been accredited, Sewanee saw my intelligence and took a chance…they believed in me (at least that admissions recruiter had)…and it was one of the top liberal arts schools in the country. Number 3 at the time, if I remember correctly. That said something. that MEANT something. Mt. Holyoke, Trinity, and UC Irvine had given me a chance, but Sewanee?

Mom and I boarded the plane; I was bursting with excitement. I hadn’t really thought about what would happen after this…other than, “I’m going to college!.” We had a plan. Hit Trinity, Mt. Holyoke, Frankling and Marshall then drive down to Tennessee, but first hit Rhode Island to see mom’s old high school friend. I hadn’t been to the east coast before, so this was beyond exciting.

Blank.

Blank.

Blank.

I don’t think we actually went to Mt. Holyoke. I know we went to Trinity. It was the first stop. I was completely overwhelmed and couldn’t even be convinced to leave my mother’s side to go hang with the student who was supposed to give me a tour.

Then came F and M. Can we just say F*** and More *Fuck.

After attending an intro dinner, I had had one too many touches on my ass by the admissions counselor and called it out to my mom.

“I feel really weird. Is this normal?”

I was so far outside of knowing what it was like outside of the cult that I thought that may be this how things were….

Admissions counselors ask you to go to their house without your parent, right? I’m supposed to do that, right? I feel uncomfortable, and that’s because I grew up in a cult, right?

“Nope. This is insane” said mom. “If it doesn’t feel right, don’t do it.” she said.

But “I want to be accepted.” I said.

“I’m the weirdo outsider,” I said.

Mom, dad and I wrote the letter expressing my feelings of discomfort.

Months later, a letter came in return apologizing for his actions.

“I guess I wasn’t just over-reacting,” I said.

Years later, I met someone who also went to F and M that year and told me that that specific admissions counselor was incarcerated because he sexually abused an incoming freshman….brutally…at his home.

“Trust your gut” I learned.

Sewanee…Nashville. Chattanooga…these were my hope.

Horses. Varsity Equestrian team.

Tennessee.

Equestrian team. Scholarships for riding horses.

Tennessee.

Work in Nashville….I had work in Nashville…

Only what was happening? School, horse shows. Grades. Professors. Earning a gown in order to go to class.

Memories.

Flashbacks.

Fear.

Men.

Sex.

Unwanted sex.

NIghtmares.

Unwanted sex.

I had some major adjustments to make living there in the South. Budapest had stolen my faith, and there is nothing more powerful for removing hope as in removing faith.

I think that’s the thing. Budapest didn’t take hope – it took my faith…Having faith disappear doesn’t upend your life…it upends your trust in HOPE.

Date Rape.

Missed horse shows

Lost scholarships

Seeing a “C” on your report card….a grade that makes you lose your scholarship…Grades that don’t help you get your gown that you need in order to get to sophmore year.

Rich people EVERYWHERE.

I had to work…..

Christianity as a lifestyle not a life……….

I was lost.

I couldn’t. Just couldn’t.

I left mid second semester freshman year.

Left – as in I bought a ticket to England leaving everything including my car on campus…

But that’s a story I”ll get to…too much pain to tell now.

SO then what happened?

Whittier College happened.

Whittier College happened TO me. I didn’t choose it; it chose ME.

Whittier — or it’s staff, faculty and students — chose me. They were my savior. Whittier was the life changing decision that I was forced into.

With every step I took in my white converse on that trek up to Philadelphia Avenue and the Rock at Whittier, I grew in strength. Every step on that road, I established a new sense of “self” – with every inch I took toward this new campus I regained hope. With clenched fists, I repeated the mantra I had taught myself: “You are doing this….you are doing this…you are doing this.” I stopped at the corner of Wardman and Philadelphia and looked around. Across from me I saw the campus: several run down buildings with a parking lot full of old cars obviously owned by students and professors: a huge difference from the BMWs and Mercedes of my freshman year at Sewanee that sat in parking lots with the keys in the ignition. “No one” date raped anyone there or stole cars…it hadn’t happened in 20 years, so they said…I knew differently.

Instantly, in that parking lot, I knew fit at Whittier WAY more than whatever the heck Sewanee actually had been.

Maybe I hadn’t actually been raped, but here, I knew I could at least be honest about feeling like maybe possibly that had happened, because looking around…I knew I was with my people.

As I approached the registration tables, my confidence grew. I was older than the majority of the people checking in. I was aware I was alone, but I’d been through life. I’d done admissions day.. I had this.

“Melissa Carvey. I’m a non-traditional transfer Student.” I said as I looked strongly into the eyes of the student checking me in, then blurted out, “I’m soooo excited- I could shit myself!” She chuckled awkwardly: “Yeah, that’s why you’re at this table and not the other.” Her eyes rolled and the sweat in between my toes swelled.

“Your advisor is Anne Kiley…head to the left over to Hoover…you’ll pass the Rock and look for the old run down building…”

“Ummmm. Ok. Will someone show me? I’m old, I need help.”

“You’ll find it; campus is small.”

I grabbed my packet, nervously tucking it under my right arm.

*DEEP BREATH* Right. 21 isn’t an old student, just “non-traditional” – just keep going. Just keep doing. This is just a next step.

Nervously following the path she had pionted me towards, I joined a swelling group of people full of other new students all of whom had countless numbers of support figures. I was on my own in this group. I didn’t want to talk to anyoe, I just wanted to be..just me.

Pretending I knew exactly where I was going, I spotted a small group at the door of Hoover, standing awkwardly around a woman with frizzy hair and uncontained boobs seemed to have a life of their own. She was speaking animatedly to a female student who seemed to feel even more uncomfortable than I did.

“So…um…I’m pre-law transfer student, and am looking for my group?”

“Uuuuuh, well….uuuuuhh. What’s your name?”

“Melissa Carvey?”

She glanced at the notebook she held in her hand.

“Ooooooh, ummmmmmmmm…yes.”

Her hesitation made me uncomfortable.

I glanced around, hoping for some sort of friendly face. This woman was NOT going to make things any easier.

“Well, apparently, you’re perfectly and wonderfully where you’re supposed to be! I see you came from Tennessee! I once taught a writing seminar at Sewanee about Byron. I was so excited when I saw we stole someone from such a respected school! But really, why would anyone want to actually live there when they could be among friends? The South is so….antiquated”

I stared at her blankly and it sunk in…Sewanee was known for its Young Writer’s Camp…..one of the reasons I’d wanted to be there….and this professor TAUGHT there…and she thought it was “antiquated!!!”

I loved her. And thought she was weird – PERFECTION.

“I’m impressed you were there…not exactly an easy school to get accepted into, especially because they are full of patriarchal, socio-economically motivated assholes, but I’m sure you’ve got a story to tell and hopefully I won’t hate you! But you’re here, and if you’re here, we’ll accept you as family – screw Southern Gentry – I mean, let’s be honest, they are absolutely horrific. Don’t care if I offend. As Byron says……..”

She went on with a poetry quote I can’t remember for the life of me. She could have given a quote from Blue’s Clues, and I wouldn’t have cared…I knew I was home.

Confused but somehow invigorated by the acknowledgement, I stepped into the welcome and the weird judgment of where I had come from.

“Well, I’m a Californian at heart, and, true, Sewanee wasn’t exactly liberal…but I am LIBERAL…..” I adjusted my khakis and white polo shirt, hoping that I was saying all the right things- really wanting the other new students around me to know that I WASN’T all the things she had just described of where I came from.

Anne looked me up and down, then reached her hand out and put it on my shoulder.

I retracted at her physical affection.

“Melissa, meet Shelley. We stole Shelley from the University of Puget Sound.”

Shelley’s eyes darted to the ground, and uncomfortably shifted from one foot to the other.

“Yeah. Didn’t work for me there.” I saw in her the same discomfort and shock I had felt with Anne’s brazen and unfiltered words toward me.

This was awkward….

Silence.

“Well,” the big-boobed, frizzy haired woman went on, “We are so excited to have you guys here, and we’re gonna get you guys safely incorporated and accepted into this new community…Whittier is your new family.” Her hand again reached out again and grasped the arm of a young Indian girl, “Nilanga! I’ve got your two new students! Show them the ropes, will you?”

Nilanga turned to me and quietly said, “I’m so glad to meet you. Let’s go get to know each other.” Her smile melted me with its vibrance and welcoming embrace. “We have to go through some formalities, but after all that, if you’d like we can have dinner at my parent’s place, and just get to know each other! I’m non-traditional too, and I know how sucky it is to feel like you’re not on the path everyone else is on….but I swear Whittier is the exact place for people like us. I promise that, actually. And Anne isn’t as bad as she comes off – she’s just…unique.

Doubting my decision to be here, I turned and looked Anne in the eyes.

“I’m here for the next four years. Or however long you need.”

Her hand touched mine.

Her hand has never left me.

RIP Anne Kiley, English Professor Extraordinaire and loving eternal friend.