A Childhood Secret I Never Told My Parents
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…and that never came up in therapy (trigger warning)
I was 11 or 12 years old. We had just moved from a major metro area to the small town where my mom grew up. We moved into the family house with my grandparents. The piano my mom and her siblings played growing up was still there. It was an old upright with broken keys that had probably never been tuned a day in its life — or at least not during my lifetime. But I was glad to have an instrument to practice and play on in my new environment.
There were two piano teachers and two dance teachers in town locally. The dance teacher was an easy choice — I just went to the one my cousin had been going to and really liked. The other dance teacher only worked with majorettes, and since I hadn’t been twirling batons since childhood, her studio wasn’t really an option anyway. My cousin’s dance school offered all kinds of lessons, including dance, baton, and gymnastics. It wasn’t what you might call an elite school of dance, but we loved our teacher and we always had fun.
Choosing between the two piano teachers in town was also an easy choice, but for a reason I’ve never told anyone — least of all my mom or the aunty who was showing us around and introducing us to the local coaches.
Both piano teachers had earned great reputation in our little community, and both had a full studio of learners of all ages, including mostly kids and mostly around my own age. Both were centrally located right in town. Our dance school, by comparison, was way out in the country. To be fair, though, nothing was more than 5- to 10-minutes away in this town. But the point is that, by all accounts, both Mrs. Merryweather and Mrs. Frostmore were excellent choices.
How could I possibly decide on a piano teacher when they were more or less the same professionally?
Well, my cousin was taking lessons with Mrs. Merryweather (fictional name) and seemed to really like her. She had been learning piano with her since early childhood and was playing really well. I liked my cousin, and I figured I would like her teacher, too. (Don’t you just love childhood reasoning?) I hadn’t met either teacher, but — based on her name alone, Mrs. Frostmore (fictional name) didn’t sound pleasant at all. (We shouldn’t judge people by their appearance, but judging by their name is apparently acceptable).
Also, although both teachers seemed to be at least in their sixties or seventies, Mrs. Frostmore seemed really old and very serious, while Mrs. Merryweather seemed younger and funner. My cousin always had fun in her lessons, or seemed to look happy anyway. That was good enough for me at 11 or 12 years old. Now I wonder if there were more serious feelings buried beneath her smiles and drowned in her laughs.
Considering that both piano teachers in my new town could probably teach me important things, I figured I would pick the one who was nicer and, more importantly, funner.
Since I had a choice and all.
At 11 or 12 years old, having choices in my education was a BIG deal.
But fun turned out not to be the deciding factor in choosing a piano teacher in my new hometown.
I first met Mrs. Merryweather when I sat in on my cousin’s after-school piano lesson, which took place at Merryweather’s home studio, in the modest brick house she lived in with her retired husband (who was also very old, to my childhood recollection).
In her lessons with Mrs. Merryweather, my cousin was learning popular piano arrangements and popular pedagogical pieces from popular publishers like Bastien, Faber and Faber, and Alfred. I had never gotten to play any of those popular songs from any of those popular publishers, so I was really excited about the prospect of learning popular music with a popular teacher like Mrs. Merryweather. Considering my popularity to that point had been due to my popularity with bullies at school (and in my family), the prospect of popularity in music was quite appealing!
Like his wife, Mr. Merryweather also seemed young at heart, as he enjoyed playing video games and didn’t find kids too annoying.
In hindsight, I think Mr. Merryweather mostly liked watching other people playing video games because I never saw him pick up a hand-held control (other than to hand it to me, of course).
Then again, I only visited their house that one time.
Come to think of it, I didn’t know a thing about Mr. Merryweather and I doubt anyone else knew much about him either. We just knew he was Mrs. Merryweather’s husband. I guess her reputation alone was good enough for both of them.
I mean:
- He probably went to church.
- And he probably had a good job before retiring.
- He might have even served in The War.
- He was probably Christian and probably Protestant (the preference in rural USA).
- Did I mention he was probably an active churchgoer?
- And he was married to one of the best piano teachers in town.
That’s all the parents ever really cared to know about this old man who was, aside from being old and possibly near death, more or less a background character in their children’s lives. If he was good enough for our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and Mrs. Weather, he was certainly good enough for us.
When we prayed for people like Mr. Merryweather, we prayed for Mrs. Merryweather and her husband. What else was there to know about him?
To this day, I do not know that old man’s name.
I just know he was old.
(Aren’t childhood memories just adorable?)
During my cousin’s piano lesson, I had the option to sit in the music room and be quiet or have a snack and play video games quietly not in the music room. Naturally, I chose to have a snack and play video games! (Never mind that the whole point in me being there was to observe Mrs. Merryweather and decide if I wanted to take lessons with her).
In hindsight, this was excellent planning on Mrs. Merryweather’s part. Who wants to be observed at work — and by a child no less!? And how convenient that her husband could be home to entertain her guests in another room while she was busy teaching. Considering her guests were mostly children, ready-made adult supervision was not only convenient but probably mandatory.
Of course, I knew how to behave at other people’s houses (being so serious and all), but not all children are held accountable for their actions when they return home. Personally, I would have been beaten within an inch of my life — firstly, by my mother for misbehaving and secondly, by grandmother for embarrassing the family.
So, with or without adult supervision, I was definitely planning to sit still and be quiet during my cousin’s piano lesson.
But it sure was nice to get to just be a kid and eat junk food and play video games for that whole half hour!
When I heard snacks and video games, I no longer felt the need to observe Mrs. Merryweather teaching my cousin to play piano. Whose idea was that anyway?? Probably my mom’s. (I get my seriousness from her). I figured I could just make something up if (and when) my mom asked me any questions about Mrs. Merryweather.
As far as my 11- or 12-year-old self was concerned, my mind was made up at snacks!
I remember Mrs. Merryweather’s husband saying something about Super Mario Brothers, and I remember being so excited.
In hindsight, that could very well have been the only game he mentioned, but it was my favorite game at the time (and remember, I bought in at “snacks”), so I was thrilled.
Lemonade, cookies, and video games!
It was every Millenial kid’s dream, although — come to think of it, it was also a most unexpected scenario — Nintendo at an old white folks’ house in the country. Did they even have children or grandchildren? Maybe the grandkids played when they visited in summer. No matter!
Did someone say chocolate chip?
Back in the city, my mom (and my friends’ moms) only allowed us kids to drink water and smoothies made from whole fruits and vegetables and no added sugars, so I sure didn’t object when I got offered sugary beverages in the country. I also didn’t mind helping myself to the plate full of homemade cookies and the bowl of old fashioned candies. I minded my manners, of course, but I absolutely did not object when the host insisted I have more.
No wonder kids loved taking lessons at the Merryweathers!
To my recollection, Mrs. Frostmore didn’t serve junk food at her house. We could have a glass of water if we were thirsty. She didn’t have any video games either. In fact, visitors weren’t allowed to sit in on her lessons, not even parents. When you went there for a lesson, all you did was take your lesson and leave. Empty-handed. With nothing but the music books you showed up with. And maybe some new sheet music she would add to your bill. See what I mean by serious?
To be fair, Mrs. Frostmore organized monthly music club meetups with snacks and games, and she coordinated carpools to out-of-town events where I’m sure there would be out-of-town foods and out-of-town activities. But for an 11- or 12-year-old kid with a choice, having snacks and games every week was more than ideal — it was optimal.
It was supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!
Also, it didn’t occur to me at the time that I was getting snacks and video games because I was a guest and not a student at Mrs. Merryweather’s house. I highly doubt any student ever got to go over there and just sit there eating cookies and candy for a full half-hour every week. I’m not even sure Mrs. Merryweather’s students got to enjoy any snacks at all. Maybe she only put them out for siblings and cousins who were deciding between lessons with her or lessons with that other teacher — the mean one. (See how easily Mrs. Frostmore’s reputation went from professional to serious to mean?) But I was 11 or 12. And anything’s possible, right? Including eating cookies and playing Super Mario Brothers during a piano lesson.
While Mrs. Merryweather’s husband got the Nintendo ready to play, I helped myself to some homemade cookies and lemonade.
While Mrs. Merryweather carried on with my cousin’s piano lesson in the music room, I plopped down on the couch in the cozy TV room just off from the kitchen.
I forgot all about the piano lesson I was supposed to be observing as I delighted in the imaginary sounds of chocolate chips melting in my mouth.
I remembered to be quiet, of course, but my pretend smacking was music to my ears!
I also couldn’t help feeling quite pleased with myself when I got to have cookies when my cousin didn’t.
Finally, it was time to play!
It didn’t seem odd at all that the Nintendo wasn’t already set up or that the controls were buried so deep in the junk drawer that it took forever to unravel all the cords. Then again, any length of time seems like forever when you’re a kid. Besides, it was only the early nineties, and even rich folks still had box TVs and VCRs. It was probably impossible to maintain multiple connected devices back then. Plus, they probably had grandkids that played when they visited in summer. It probably wasn’t all that common for siblings and cousins to sit in on Mrs. Merryweather’s lessons. Alls I know is that I just couldn’t wait to show off my gaming skills to my new friend, the background guy at Mrs. Merryweather’s house! Being so unpopular with kids my own age, it was nice to play a game with someone besides my cousins or my bratty brother or myself.
I was sitting there on the cozy couch enjoying my chocolate morsels and playing video games with Mrs. Merryweather’s husband.
Out of nowhere, his hand brushed my knee.
By accident.
Then, he accidentally brushed the side of my leg.
I grit my teeth and tried hard not to mess up in the game.
Too late — Super Mario is dead!
“Whoops! I didn’t do it!” Mr. Merryweather exclaimed.
This went on for a while. It seemed like forever.
He would “accidentally” bump me then claim he “didn’t do it” when I would inevitably startle and then die in the game.
I knew — and still know — a lot of grownups who think it’s fun to bully and rough around with kids, but since there was rarely anything a kid could do about it, I just sat there and played the game and tried to ignore him.
I would be playing the game and would mess up and die every time he “accidentally” touched me.
He would say, “Whoops! I didn’t do it!” with a cavalier shoulder shrug like I was just bad at playing the game.
I was a latchkey kid in the nineties — Give me a break!
This dude was trying to make me mess up and die in the game on purpose!
(Seriously, I thought that was the point of his little game of “Whoops!”).
Then, somehow, out of nowhere, his hand wound up inside my thigh.
By accident.
I had been playing Super Mario Brothers since the Nintendo first came out — and I had been gaming since the old days of Pac-Man, Frogger, and Atari, so I was annoyed to die in the middle of a good run for no good reason.
Seriously, that’s what my 11- or 12-year-old brain was thinking about — how this old man’s game of “Whoops!” was ruining my video game!!
Then his hand ended up grasping my right boob.
By accident.
I was 11 or 12 years old with C-cups.
And this 80-year-old man was groping my 12-year-old boobs.
Game over.
I remember that he was sitting to my right.
I can still feel his creepy hand on my right boob when I think about it now.
Nearly 30 years later.
Gives a whole new meaning to phantom hand syndrome.
The accidental touching game went on for 30 full minutes.
The entire duration of my cousin’s lesson.
It felt like forever.
I could not get out of there fast enough.
When my mom inevitably asked me how I liked the lesson and if I’d like Mrs. Merryweather to be my teacher, I just told her that I didn’t think this studio was the right fit — or something to that effect (however a well-mannered pre-teen girl would convey “Hell NO!” to their Catholic mother).
Come to think of it, I don’t know if I knew there was another option for piano lessons in that moment, but I knew for sure I could never go back in that house again.
These days, I wonder if I wasn’t the only one carrying around secrets from the Merryweathers’ house.
I wonder about my cousin.
She took lessons there all the way through high school.
With Mrs. Merryweather.
And Mrs. Merryweather’s husband.
I wonder how many kids felt Mrs. Merryweather’s husband’s 80-year-old hands all over their developing bodies.
I wonder how many children and adolescents listened when he said “this is our little secret” and never told a living soul about his salacious behavior.
I wonder how many girls (and possibly boys) developed inappropriate relationships with other adult men after that.
I wonder how many people are still scarred by Mr. Merryweather’s secret to this day.
Mr. Merryweather’s secret only happened to me once.
For 30 minutes.
But I still feel his hand groping my right breast and sliding inside my right thigh.
More than twenty years later.
And it only happened once.
With him.
There would be others later.
I was so confused as to even enjoy it with one of them.
When I should have been grossed out if anything.
And not a single mental health professional ever helped me with my history of sexual trauma.
I’m sorting all this out now — with you, on the Internet.
By my early twenties, I didn’t trust any of my male professors.
Even the ones who became my mentors and the handful who became friends.
There was always a thought in the back of my mind that I needed to be on guard and keep my distance — both emotionally and, of course, physically.
I eventually got over my fears of my closest male mentors, but can you imagine how awkward I must have been around them? And how fill-In-the-blank-whatever I must have seemed when I rejected normal (in hindsight) mentorship and friendship? One of them used to (and probably still does) call me “drama queen.”
I always found it so inappropriate and just like a man to call a woman dramatic when she’s upset for perfectly managerial reasons (e.g. work not being done to standard or too slow).
I now wonder if that “drama queen” was really just a scared little girl playing video games.
I turned 38 in 2020, and except for my husband, I haven’t shared any of this with anyone — except you.
Thanks for reading.
Originally published as an answer to a question prompt on Quora about a childhood secret I never told my parents.
Read a longer version of this story in A Childhood Secret — Book Chapter.
Read about another childhood secret in My First Tween Age Love Affair.
Read my thoughts on recalling memories of childhood trauma in Standing Naked in Public and On My Own.
Learn more about child sexual abuse facts from Darkness to Light (D2L).
Agent, editor, and publisher referrals welcome.
