Essentially, I’m about to strip down and stand naked and vulnerable in the middle of the road. But I’m going to do it anyway, because after yesterday’s news, I have something to say:
I grew up in what I believed to be a normal American military household. My father achieved the highest rank available to noncommissioned officers in the Navy. He was a Master Chief Petty Officer, a veteran who served in Vietnam, and to say he was respected by his peers is an understatement. He loved his job and only retired because of an accident that left him in a wheelchair for 6 months, never again able to scale the decks of ships. He received an honorable discharge—a release from his duties that heralded a bad era for my family.
At one point, my father was my idol. He was tall, dark and handsome, and oh, so smart. The fact that he wasn’t really a fan of MINE didn’t bother me so much as it did later. Enough to say he was the man in charge, and he ran our household under many of the same principles he’d learned in the military.
Until the age of 12, I didn’t make many close friends. We traveled a lot, but that’s the year my family settled in Charleston, South Carolina, newly arrived after a 5-year stint at a communications base in Ponce, Puerto Rico. After my father retired, he took a job locally, but still worked for the military as a civilian. My Spanish mother learned to drive. We—me and my brothers and sister—came out of our shells and began to make friends. During these years, my father received top-secret clearance for his analytics work for the military. I remember “those men” who came knocking on all our neighbors’ doors, asking questions. And for a while, we were a “normal” American family… until one day… we weren’t.
I’ll spare you dirty details, but I will say I am a survivor. I survived what turned out to be the most complicated and harrowing years of my life—hard years that shaped my adult life and gave me the aptitude to bleed for my writing in a way I wouldn’t have been able to otherwise. But, aside from telling you my father was a closet alcoholic, and extremely heavy handed, I won’t say much else, because much of our story isn’t only mine to tell. However, his fall from grace was one we ALL took with him—every member of my family. We became collateral damage in a war fought beneath our own roof.
I wasn’t always the mouthy, rebellious daughter I turned out to be. But with every smack of my father’s fist, I became that person, standing higher and stronger, fueled by righteous anger. One thing’s for sure, his military style of parenting didn’t work where I was concerned. The more he tried to beat me into submission (sometimes literally and sometimes verbally), the more I fought and railed against him.
But that part of my story isn’t unique, is it? Teenagers are defiant, infuriating beings. Whether I did, or whether I didn’t have a right to be as I was, isn’t the point I’m trying to make. The point is that life happens to us all.
One day, I was alone in my house with my dad—this man who’d achieved such high military honor. Silver haired and depressed, he sat on his bed with a gun in his hand… cleaning it. This wasn’t a gun he’d procured illegally. It was his gun. He pulled it apart, piece by piece and took his rag to every part until it shone.
I walked by his room, saw what he was doing and kept on walking, with prickles riding down my spine. I walked into my bedroom and sat on my bed, and felt so much turmoil. Why was his gun out? He certainly had all the right credentials to own one, but I hadn’t seen that gun in a while, and now, after a systemic failure of our family, I was terrified of the reason he was drawn to it. So there I sat, worrying about him, and after a while, I heard him begin to cry. All the while, he sat piecing his gun back together…
Should I leave the house? I wondered.
My relationship with him was by far the most tumultuous. As his eldest child, I bore the brunt of much of his fury. If my siblings didn’t tow the line, I was to blame. By the same token, I felt an underlying sense of respect from him, for me, although not perhaps evident in his everyday treatment of me. Responsibility kept me rooted to the spot.
That day, seated alone in his room, with his gun, he called my name, and I wanted not to answer… but I did. I stood in the door of his room, blinking away tears in my own eyes as my silver-haired father wept over his gun. Truthfully, I don’t remember what he said. His mouth was moving, but words were incomprehensible… until he lifted the gun, pointed it at me, and said, “Do you know how easy it would be for me to pull the trigger? Put an end to it all?”
But that gun was pointed at ME. My heart slammed into my ribs. I was 15.
I stood, looking into the small barrel of my father’s gun, realizing he could do exactly as he said. He wasn’t the type for idle threats. If he said something, he followed through, and he never minced words.
With that gun pointed at me across a shrinking room, I thought about what to do. Exactly where I got the strength to say or do what I did, I don’t know, except, that in many ways I am my father’s daughter. I looked at him straight in the eyes and said, “You’re not the kind of man who shoots an innocent person in the back—your own daughter. So, I’m going to walk away, and if you shoot me, you’ll have to live with that.” And that’s what I did. I turned my back on his gun and returned to my room. I sat on my bed and cried—and worried, because I half expected my father to put his gun to his head.
If you read The Girl Who Stayed, yes, I borrowed this scene for that book, and 40 years later, I sobbed as I wrote it, because that’s how deeply affected I was.
But wait? What’s this got to do with yesterday’s news? Well, we’ve had yet another shooting, but that’s not really “yesterday’s news” anymore, is it, because this is happening more and more, and becoming firmly entrenched in our daily lives. We can’t even feel comfortable going to church, a movie, school, or a concert, without fear of some crazy person pulling out his gun.
So, let me, once again, be like my father, and not mince words:
- People change throughout their lives. Just because they once qualified to own and operate a gun–EVEN if they had an entire team of “men in black” checking to give them clearance–doesn’t mean they are owed that right for life.
- Just because they served in the military DOES NOT mean they are owed the right to own a gun.
- Guns in the home DO NOT make those who live beneath the same roof feel safe. I did NOT feel safe, and to this day, I shy away from people who feel the need to own guns. You might have the license to own one, but I have a right not to be around you, and so the next time you feel the need to open carry, think about the fact that you are hurting me, despite that you may never use your gun in my presence, because every time I see YOUR gun, I will think about the time my father nearly killed me, and if you carry it openly anyway, you’re no one I want to know.
- Good men go bad. Good women go bad. Shit happens. Life gets crazy; people should have to periodically requalify to own a gun, if they must.
I’ll end this by saying I do not advocate taking away people’s guns. All we’re—me and people like me—are asking for is gun control, stricter qualifications and periodic testing to be sure mentally ill people to not have access to them, and to disallow the use of automatic weapons (why are these needed anyway? The mass extinction of human life is the only purpose these weapons have).
Eventually, I made friends with my father, but he was a sad, broken man, who, although once might have qualified to own a gun, in the end, should not have had access to one. The fact that he did not use it that day is not the bar by which this truth should be judged. By grace alone, I am not a statistic, but how many others walk in my shoes? I don’t know. But I do know this. Those who were not spared by grace are now a growing list… one I’d like to end. Come on people, let’s vote for gun control. Please.
Tanya, this is a heartbreaking story that hits home for me, and many other military brats. While not quite to the extent that you endured, I went through similar issues, having a perfect older sister and a baby brother, I bore the brunt of my fathers wrath. It took years for me the realize, that as much as I hated him at times, he did the best he could based on the circumstances. Our military(all military) do not train young men to be fathers, they train them to be war machines. Only once he became a grandfather did I see him for a caring man who actually had a heart, seeing him with my own daughter gave me the wherewithal to forgive him for the wrongs I felt my entire life. Thanks for the article, Bless You for baring your soul for a cause you believe in
Hugs, Paul. I suspect that many of our neighbors have similar stories. Charleston had a huge military presence, and many of us were raised by veterans of wars who didn’t know how to love.
I understand how you feel for I had a stepfather who beat us , raped me over and over and my mother allowed it, At the age of 9 I took care of my brothers, cooked, and made my clothes. We also help build our stepfathers’s A-Frames house. He was a marine. He beat my oldest brother so bad he left with $3.00 to his name and traveled from N. Carolina to California. We were beat often, had to stand in a corner with a trash can over us. He potty in every room after taking castro oil and said clean it up or eat it. There was no help and he did treaten us all the time with a gun or knife. So yes I know what you mean but as a child you can wish he would die and hate yourself for not having the nerve to do it. That is why I have been making toys and quilts for the Homeless and Abused children , TOYS FOR TOTS, fire dept and I’m proud I have helped many of them. OH THE LORD DOES SERVE JUSTICE. HE DIED OF PROSTATE CANCER AND IT TOOK 7 YRS.
OMG, Debra, I’m so sorry. Interestingly enough, my father also died of prostate cancer, over 11 years. I will say that I saw a changed man through that ordeal. My love to you.
I just want to add that his parents said he was always like that. Cruel so if anyone thinks the Military did this no that’s not true. We do have the finest men in our Military but there are always some bad eggs.
Whenever reading an author’s work, you always wonder what elements are inspired by actual events and moments. Interesting to see that from The Girl Who Stayed. Very brave of you for sharing. Thank you for doing so and I completely agree with your stance. More than happy to stand beside you, holding your hand.
Interestingly enough, Mark, I think that much of my conflict showed up in that book, and I had many readers who wondered if it was autobiographical. Of course, it was not.
My dear friend, I never knew what you had gone through and it breaks my heart. I do agree that people should have to re-qualify to own a gun, and not have a one-time pass or fail determine that they are qualified for the rest of their lives to own a gun. You make a very good point, but I don’t know how this could realistically be put in place. How would the certifying agency know the true mental status of an individual at any point in time? That Personal Health Information or PHI, is confidential, and for good reason. How would you account for people who don’t seek treatment and thus, fly under the radar of scrutiny? Would you be in favor of mandatory mental health testing every year? Every five years? How else would those with mental illness be deemed unqualified to own a weapon? Who decides is or is not “mentally stable enough to own a weapon?” Would you include knives and swords, or just guns in your pass/fail scenario? I agree that something needs to be done about these horrific events, but I am not sure that I want more government control over our lives to protect us from each other. There will always be criminals who will have weapons and they won’t follow the rules that law-abiding citizens follow. If we give up our ability to own weapons by allowing some agency to determine our mental fitness, is it really worth it in the end?
I don’t know what this looks like in practice, Linda, but, yes, I feel it’s necessary. The truth is that I don’t think that argument holds much water, because no one needs to know the health status of a person, unless they show up at the gun counter to buy a gun, and then, what they are showing is an okay to purchase. People who don’t qualify wouldn’t be forced to disclose they didn’t qualify. My husband was in an accident that put him in a 6 week coma, and his driver’s license was immediately revoked. In order to drive again, he had to test again. Something like this could and should be in place for example, for men convicted of domestic abuse (or any number of crimes). Does this safeguard us against all circumstances? NO. But just because you might not succeed at something 100 percent doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. Also, there is no one on this earth who can convince me that ANYBODY needs a weapon of mass destruction. There is only one reason to have an automatic weapon, and it’s to kill a lot of people at the same time.
Also, we were smart enough as a nation to provide a brilliant governing body. I’d like to think we’re smart enough to figure this out as well.
Tanya I’m so sorry for what you went through. Yes grace kept you alive that day. I agree with you on gun control. Twenty eight years ago my brother was murdered. He was shot with a semi automatic gun. He was shot over something his wife told her sister. The man never served anytime in jail for his crimes. During the day he washed the county’s cars and ran errands. At night he went home and slept in his own bed, played with his son and ate dinner with his wife every night. It was hard for me to know that. I wanted to go get justice for my baby brother. One day I was praying and I had a feeling come over me like nothing ever had before. My feeling was that if I wanted peace for my family I had to pray for that mans soul, not forgive him but pray. I had so much peace after I struggled with that feeling for a week. Me telling you this story is even carthartic. I just wanted to tell you that as long as we can pray and tell stories like ours maybe we can and I stress can make a difference. So please keep telling your story and keep writing.
I don’t even know what to say, Tanya. This is such a heart-breaking story. I commend you sharing it in hopes that it will help change our gun laws. Thank you.
I wish I could hug you. Thank you so much for sharing this story. It took a lot of courage, and I’m sure isn’t something you like to dwell on. But it’s important for others to hear.
Tanya, I found this through my friend Molly Campbell. My father was an alcoholic and Colonel in the Army. He took out all his fury on me (Instead of my mom, where his inner rage really was) and after he died, I found out he’d had a gun but we never found it. I can’t help but wonder what happened to it. Because the level of drunk he got at night (and I was beat – although my sister wasn’t) it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d threatened me the way your dad threatened you. My dad beat prostate cancer but died of congestive heart failure when he was 89. I never cried when he died. People asked me, “Don’t you miss your Dad?” and I always responded, “No, I miss the Dad he could have been. And wasn’t.”
Harrowing.
My sister-in-law and her two youngest children were murdered by her husband.
Thank you for sharing this. It’s always a terrible relief to know you weren’t the only one.
Tanya my sweet loving cousin. You are one of the most strongest , courageous and loving women I’ve ever known. just want you to know how much I feel your pain and love you for sharing such a personal experience. I’m proud of you!
Tu prima Estrella