Silence…Is Not Golden

Jason Versey
Aug 26, 2017 · 13 min read

Inside every person there is a child and inside every child there is a voice and this one is mine…

It was another emblematic sticky and humid early evening in 1979. It was late August. My younger sister, Tasha, and I had been in our bunk beds for the past hour. During the summers we lived at Hillview Apartments our bedtime was strictly enforced at six p.m., especially on Friday and Saturday nights. Our mother enjoyed partying on the weekends and being in by five-thirty gave her the comfort that we were secure in the apartment, in our beds and out of her hair before heading out for the night. On this particular night we sat in our bunkbeds uncomfortably warm, my sister on the bottom and me on the top. As we sat, we listened to the sounds of people laughing and cussing downstairs beyond and below our closed bedroom door. Naturally, we were wide awake. My mother, along with a handful of her friends, were getting primed for a night out amid disco music, booze and weed. It was the 70’s and those were the sounds and smells of summer that I remember as a child.

“Our laughter billowed from deep within us from an unreachable, unbroken inner place that, in no small way, empowered us to cope with the incessant dysfunction we endured on a regular basis.”

Michael Jackson’s new song “Don’t Stop, ‘Til You Get Enough” permeated and reverberated through the thin walls of our bedroom. Our window, sporting its tattered screen, was opened so we could hear his melodic high pitched voice mixing with the soulful jubilant horns and steady beat through the open living-room door that was just a few feet below us. We both had a great affinity for R & B music so, despite the heat, when we heard that song we jumped, with a thump, from our beds and danced together, laughing and giggling until we heard a familiar shrill voice, mired in profanity, squealing from downstairs demanding that we return to our beds. We fearfully obliged but not before waving a taunting finger and silently mocking our mother’s words with distorted over-exaggerated angry faces. We returned to our beds and laughed until it hurt. Much to our mother’s frustration we never could contain this type of innocent childhood rebellion. Our laughter billowed from deep within us from an unreachable, unbroken inner place that, in no small way, empowered us to cope with the incessant dysfunction we endured on a regular basis. Our caucasian mother was a woman who struggled with extreme obesity but never lacked in self-confidence especially when she drank. Our father, who was black, had left her and us soon after the birth of my sister. Our laughter incensed her. I can only assume it was because she saw the face of our absent father seemingly mocking her through us. We were a constant reminder of him and he was long gone. In our beds we closed our eyes and danced in our minds as Michael grooved on…“Keep on…with the force, don’t, Don’t stop ‘til you get enough, Keep on…with the force, don’t…Don’t stop ‘til you get enough…”

Our housing complex was one of about twenty or so horizontally built government subsidized, low income, apartments with six units a piece. Our project looked similar to the older set ups seen on military bases and was known for housing single moms and down and out families. Most of the Hillview Apartments (affectionately known as “Hillzoo” by the local authorities) were complete with three bedrooms and one full bath on the second floor with a humble main living area and kitchen on the first floor. Each apartment was equipped with a damp, often clammy cement formed foundation basement which was home to our washing machine and dryer. We lived in Building 15, Apartment 5.

Those hot summer days morphed, at a snail’s pace, into hot summer nights between the hours of six and darkness. I don’t ever remember it becoming night until well after nine p.m. and so (for us) it was, literally, torture looking beyond our bedroom window and seeing all the other scruffy neighborhood kids running wild and free. Most parents at “Hillzoo” could care less how late their children stayed out during the summer. This was excruciating for us as we, longingly, stared out that second floor window with feelings similar to what that tormented man Johnny Cash sang about in Folsom Prison Blues. The man who shot someone and was now haunted by the sound and whistle of a train rolling around the bend. The one where he hadn’t seen the sunshine since “I don’t know when.” That’s how we felt…stuck in Folsom Prison with time just dragging and lagging…on and on. But then we heard a familiar sound that would, eventually, change the way I viewed the world for the rest of my life.

I don’t know what it was about that sound but we heard it from a far distance clear as day. Through the music and the loud voices of people gathered downstairs the melody of “Mary Had A Little Lamb” and then “Pop Goes the Weasel” shimmied through and resonated in our ears stirring things in us that only a child would understand. “ICE CREAM!!!” My sister and I yelled in unison. We jumped off our beds again and sprinted to the window. There it was (in all its glory) slowly moving down the road mesmerizing every kid in its wake. It drove deliberately and soon had a pied piper of kids walking quickly and biking methodically behind it. It finally came to a complete stop right in front of our apartment building. We looked at each other with an utter joy and hope. In that momentary lapse of judgement, without even thinking of the potential consequences, we ran downstairs screaming “Ice Cream Truck! Ice Cream Truck! Ice cream truck!” I led the way, as I often did on such endeavors, with Tasha practically in my shirt behind me. We ran into the kitchen and beheld our mother along with several other people we did and didn’t know. It was a melting pot of black, white, and Hispanic folks. Each one of them looked at us surprised and amused by our enthusiastic screams. They seemed endearingly humored by the presence of these two nappy headed, doe eyed, innocent looking kids. Everyone, that was, except our mother.

“Have you lost your fuckin’ minds? Git your black asses upstairs!” She said it, almost, in a reaction of embarrassment. Her white puffy acne ridden face became flush with appalled frustration. We had defied her. “But…we’re hungry and the ice cream truck is right there.” I said with a pout, ignoring her. I had an audience and knew how to use it. With clenched teeth she said. “Don’t talk back to me! You had dinner. Now git back to bed or you’ll both get the paddle!” There was no greater threat than this…we hated the paddle. Just the promise of it was enough to break our spirits and she knew it. She had won. Our eyes began to water. We were defeated and there was an awkward unease in the room. We were so close to the prize but yet so far away from it. With shoulders slumped I looked around the room trying to make eye contact with anyone who would meet my gaze. I searched for just one person that might sympathize with us. None, except one, met my eyes. Ironically, The Little River Band’s Lonesome Loser played in the background.

I didn’t know his name but he took pity upon us. He seemed to melt at the site of me. He put his right hand on his chest like a woman might do when she’s moved by emotion and said “Awe, Sue. Let them have an ice cream. I’ll buy it for them.” There it was a glimmer of hope but it soon flickered and died. “No, they need to learn.” My mother said and sent us to our room anyway. With our heads down we went back to our room and pondered “what we needed to learn” from our bedroom window sobbing softly and watching the line of kids and parents walking away from that truck with their cold sugary snacks, in hand, until there was no one left. Along with our hopeful excited joy the truck slowly disappeared from our neighborhood just as magically as it had appeared. We went back to our bunks sniffling and laid there in silence, defeated.

It was about twenty minutes later when that sweet man knocked on our bedroom door and cautiously entered. He was kind and soft spoken. Wearing a tank top and very short cut-off jeans. He said. “Hey, you all want to go to McDonald’s and get a Happy Meal? You’re mom said it was alright.” For some reason he looked only at me with his large soft African American eyes. He unconsciously licked his lips as he anticipated my reaction. A big smile came upon my face and I wiped away my tears and nodded yes with a smile that turned into a giggle. He smiled with exaggerated excitement at my joy. This was a bona fide miracle. We must have died and gone to heaven. In 1979, McDonald’s rolled out its Happy Meal campaign and almost everyone I knew had had one except for us. We were “dying” to have a Happy Meal. This was way better than the ice cream truck. We jumped out of our beds and walked straight downstairs and out of 15–5 without uttering a word to our mother. She was sharing a toke of marijuana smoke with a man, delivering it directly into his mouth from hers.

“Regardless of how our mother treated us I adored her with a son’s blind admiration and loved her despite the many things she was…and wasn’t.”

Tasha sat in the back seat and I sat in the front with our new savior. He was funny, charming and made us feel safe. He complimented me. He puffed on his cigarette and exhaled saying. “Ooh Jason, you so handsome. You gonna be a lady’s man when you get older?” I didn’t know what that meant but I smiled and agreed with him. “Ah huh.” I said and let the wind from the open window hit my young round face as we drove. “How old are you little man?” He asked sweetly. “Nine.” I said automatically without looking at him. The breeze felt cool against my large head of hair as I imagined my right hand was an airplane and flew it into the invisible resistance of air. It was a beautiful dream-like summer night. We were free. The man turned up the radio as Donna Summer sang Bad Girls. “This is my song!” He exclaimed. My mother loved this song too. She owned the record and played it often. It had been her real life anthem. “Hey, mister, have you got a dime? Mister, do you want to spend some time? Oh, yeah. I got what you want, you got what I need. I’ll be your baby, come and spend it on me. Hey, mister I’ll spend some time with you.” Regardless of our mother’s lifestyle and how she treated us I adored her with a son’s blind admiration and loved her despite the many things she was…and wasn’t. “Bad girls, Talking about the sad girls. Sad girls, Talking about bad girls, yeah.”

We got to the McDonald’s drive-thru and sure enough that man ordered us our very first Happy Meals. It came with a drink, a burger and some fries. My prize was a little rubber bouncy ball. I could not have been more thrilled. Tasha sat in the backseat lost in her own wonderment. The man pulled into a self-serve gas station, got out and pumped some gas. When he was finished he came over to the passenger side door where I was and opened it. He squatted down in front of me smiling and looked deeply into my eyes.

“Driving home he put a finger to his lips as if to say this was our little secret, batted his eyelashes and beamed with gratification.”

“Do you like your Happy Meal?” He said. I nodded approvingly while taking a sip of my soda. He looked over his shoulder and then over the seat at my sister. She was preoccupied with her toy and lost in the car’s music. “Well.” He said. “How do you thank someone for buying you a Happy Meal?” I shrugged my shoulders innocently and said. “Thank you?” He giggled, licked his lips and shook his head no. “Now Jason, when someone does something nice for you…you need to do something nice for them.” “What?” I asked.“A kiss.” He said with over exaggerated eyes as if I should have already known. ‘That made sense.’ I thought. I kissed my mom many times when she gave me something. “Ok.” I said and gave him a quick peck. He said “No. silly.” and then grabbed my chin softly. He licked his full lips again, leaned in and kissed me romantically. What he was doing to me was something I had only seen my mother do with her boyfriends or people on T.V. His breath and gritty tongue, tasted of aged cheese, alcohol and stale cigarettes. He pulled away slowly and said “Now, that’s how you tell someone thank you.” There was an excited pant to his voice now and he saw that I was scared and apprehensive. “It’s o.k.” He said in a comforting manner but then asked me again with a serious look on his face. “Now, how do you thank someone for buying you a Happy Meal? Show me…do what I did to you.” He leaned in again and this time I did what I was told. More rotten cheese, more alcohol, more cigarettes, more grainy tongue. It lasted only seconds. He pulled away approvingly. “That’s how you do it!” He giggled and clapped his hands. He winked at me encouragingly, got up from his crouched position and shut the passenger door. The teacher was proud and the student bewildered.

Driving home he put a finger to his lips as if to say this was our little secret, batted his eyelashes and beamed with gratification. He giggled to himself and widened his eyes like an excited school girl and I felt a shame that I had never known before but, ironically, I also felt a weird sense of pride for winning his excited approval and that guilty feeling haunted and confused me throughout my adolescent and teenage years. I said nothing the rest of the way home. We gave our mother a quick hug when we got back and Tasha and I went straight to our room. She didn’t see what happened to me and so I was alone with my thoughts and my fears that night. I sat in complete silence simply rolling and rotating that Happy Meal bouncy ball between my fingers.

Apartment 15–5 soon grew quiet as night settled in. My mother and her group of friends departed and I never saw that man again. I’m so grateful for that because who knows what would have happened to me if he had become a staple in my mother’s life. She had always attracted many unsavory, questionable characters into her life during those formidable wonder years and yet I know that I was more fortunate than my sisters and other children who experienced such abuse.

I have thought many times, as a grown up, what I would say to that man if I ever had the chance to confront him. Would I tell him that he stole a little bit of my innocence that hot summer night? That he created a confusion and a fear in me that I never knew existed. Would I spit out angry venomous words at him and perhaps impose (my now) very powerful presence upon him? Would I make him shake with fear? Would I embarrass him, expose him and exact my revenge? My sincere and most unassuming answer dear reader is…No.

No, I have long understood that that man has had to live with that offensive secret and probably many others…all his life. I don’t. Although I remember every detail of that experience I don’t have to live with it as a victim because I have long forgiven him and by doing so I have been released from any foothold he or that experience had in my life. I am free.

You see, forgiveness is one of the greatest forces known to mankind. It is a byproduct of a real authentic inner love. A love that I have experienced and received, first hand, in my life from deep within. Let me explain.

Forgiveness is a powerful, unstoppable force of nature.

It is a healing balm that covers, protects and nurses our souls back to its proper and original health. Having this perspective I am free to love and live my life with an unspoiled and unsoiled peaceful joy. When you forgive, you are giving yourself permission to move forward in life. Loving yourself enough to move forward and beyond what has been done to you. Not forgetting…but forgiving gives us the power and leaves negative experiences powerless. Speaking about it and sharing it with others also drastically diminishes its perceived power and why I decided, a long time ago, to not be silenced by that experience.

And so, in my child’s eye, Michael Jackson beautifully sings“Keep on…with the force, don’t, Don’t stop ‘til you get enough, Keep on…with the force, don’t…Don’t stop ‘til you get enough…” and I am able to keep on dancing. So come on, go ahead, dance with me…

Inside every person there is a child and inside every child there is a voice and this one is mine.

What child is this…with hope for love and kind attention, with tears that sting and laughter that sings, with fears and qualms and longings of undiscovered wonders and charms? What child is this; who dreams and wishes of things not yet conceived? Who aches for love; tries and fails; cries and wails, but won’t give up their quest? What child is this? Don’t you see? It’s so often you and so often me.”― Jason Versey A Walk with Prudence

I am the author of the book A Walk with Prudence Practical Thoughts of Wisdom for Everyday Living

I appreciate your feedback on these articles…good or bad.

Shoot me an email at jversey@jasonversey.com, a tweet on twitter @jasonversey or leave me a comment below. I look forward to hearing from you!

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Jason Versey

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Husband, father, spiritually minded writer and author

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