Everyone Knows, One Helps

Everyone Knows, One Helps

I can say with certainty that my childhood was rough. There will always be someone who had it worse, but therapy and memes have taught me that comparative suffering isn’t useful. With a narcissistic mother and a bipolar father, my siblings and I were caught in the fray and all reacting as we best knew how, trying to protect the younger sibling or siblings as much as we could. When home is a warzone, you learn to find solace somewhere else. Anywhere else, really. I clung to teachers and mentors, soaked up affection from friends and their parents, and threw myself into every activity I could manage to avoid extra time at home.

Luckily, our church came with built-in escapes. Many churches have a youth group, but I’ve never experienced what I grew up with anywhere else so far. Twice a week, the Sunday School classrooms were opened for Homework Nights, or Activity Nights in the summer. There was no prayer, no bible message, no talk of religion or Jesus. There were elementary kids, all the way up to young adults returning to volunteer, doing homework, helping others with homework, eating snacks, and playing games. When your parents keep a tight leash on you socially, something like this was a great escape. Sure, often my mother might tag along or stay for a while. But, it wasn’t a place we could be screamed at or hit. Happy faces, everyone; we must appear put-together in front of other church folk.

The man who ran the entire youth program while I grew up went by Danny. I don’t idolize him. He was, and is, as human as the next person. But, he had a keen eye for what might really be going on in various kids' lives. On top of running the youth program at the church, Danny rented rooms in his house, usually to college students.

My freshman year of college, I tried to continue living at home. (Okay, this is deeply untrue. I did everything I could to attend college downstate, but I couldn’t get the loans I needed without my father’s co-signing, and he flatly refused). So, I signed up to attend the local university. And with that decision, I tried to continue living at home while attending college, to save money. But, it came at great cost.

My father decided to impose a midnight curfew, the severity of which I did not realize until I was screamed at after sitting on my front stoop with my then boyfriend until 12:30am. I assumed the porch counted as home, since everything was happening in clear sight of the front door, front window, and any neighbors out and about late at night, but no. Soon after, I was grounded for not cleaning my room. At 18. When I had classes and a job to get to.

People worried. I worked for the local Lutheran Campus Ministry at the time, the pastor for which was also a psychologist. He asked what kept me at home. I explained that my parents would only help with tuition if I continued living with them. (Note, they had never explicitly said this, but I’d watched it happen with my older sister, so I figured moving out would likely play out the same way with me, and I was correct). The pastor told me I was “selling my soul” for two thousand dollars a semester, and that my choices were to move out on my own soon, or leave that house when I was admitted to the hospital for a mental breakdown.

Friends pulled out my calendar and told me I had until October to make a plan, or they would show up, pack my things, and drive me somewhere, anywhere but there to live until I had better arrangements. But, luckily, Danny saw, knew, and solved. One of the rooms in his house had just opened. He offered that I could start slowly moving things in through November and December, since it would be nearly impossible to get a tenant in those months anyway, and start paying rent in January. If I wanted (or, we both knew, needed) to move in sooner, no problem.

While my mother fretted about hosting Thanksgiving in our unbelievably messy, hoarded-up house, I snuck bags and suitcases of my things 8 blocks away. When someone inevitably let it slip that I was planning to move out, my mother's response was predictable. “Then, why don’t you pack your shit and get out right now.” So, I went upstairs to pack. When she had calmed down, she tried the good-old, “[*Something**something*] you know I have a temper, and not to listen when I’m that angry…” and I finished moving over the next week or two. For his turn, my father screamed at me to tell him what they had done to be so horrible to live with, as though I were indeed stupid enough to list flaws to a man who liked to win arguments by forcing me to either lie convincingly that I was calm, or break down crying. I knew the escape would be volatile. I knew it wouldn’t go over well. I knew I couldn’t take my parents apartment shopping with me, or to expect their help. That window Danny offered was a life saver. The inexpensive rooms he rented taught me how to be a roommate, a young adult, and a kinder, more generous member of my community.

That alone would have been something to endear that man to my heart forever (even if he is an OCD beast about never keeping more than one pair of shoes in the front entryway. Like I said, he’s certainly human). But, that December a friend contacted me trying to put the pieces together and get a hold of a young man she’d experienced unpleasantly. As she put it, “He didn’t ask, but I didn’t say no.” It was, of course, the same person that had assaulted me a year before; a dark secret I’d kept from nearly everyone to avoid rocking the boat. He was another volunteer at the youth program. I had to go to Danny.

In a world that assumes women are exaggerating or lying about such experiences, Danny believed me. He gave me contact information for the Women’s Center, who I worked with to report my assault. He and the church leadership quickly decided my rapist was no longer welcome at the church, but never mentioned my name inside or outside the walls, protecting me in ways I only now comprehend. When I heard nothing for months from the police, it was Danny who set up an appointment with the local Assistant Prosecuting Attorney, who happened to go to our little church as well.

And amid all of this, Danny fended off my own mother to help give me space to process and heal. I didn’t wish to add to the fire already burning brightly between myself and my parents. By moving out, I had taken away a large arm of their control, which they didn’t take lightly. They cut me off financially, as I’d expected. My father even raged about my mother occasionally letting me come steal groceries when I was broke. I knew if they’d been aware of my rape case, they’d have used it in every way possible to get me to move home.

I have uncles. But, Danny was very much like the uncle I never had, or simply hadn’t been close enough to know and lean on in that way. He gave me an escape route, a home, protection, anonymity, and stern, but caring love I hadn’t known much of from adults in my life. He taught me that when you can offer someone such kindnesses, to simply do so. I cannot imagine what my life would look like had I not known him. I promise, there’s a Danny in every community, and the best thing we can do is learn from them, strive to be as open and loving as they are, and shine light on the work they do.