A Troubled Beginning
‘It's never too late to have a happy childhood.’ Tom Robbins
“Your mother was just young and wild. She did the best she could with what she had.” My body had always carried tension when I thought about my mother, but for the first time in my life, it relaxed when I did. I was 21 years old when those words of wisdom graced my ears. I did not hear them from a counselor or therapist, but from my cellie, “Wild Bill”, a friend in prison. His statement brought me some margin of peace and forgiveness toward my mother.
I had shared with Wild Bill how my mother treated my brother, sister, and me as children. My brother and sister do not remember any of her abusive behaviors, but I do. I shared the dispiriting feelings I harbored in association with that mom’s treatment of us, and how I felt she had abandoned my brother and me. Having acquired a newfound serenity about my mom, I determined to reconnect with her and try to resurrect our family.
After my release from prison, I visited my mother. She was living with my grandmother in St. Louis Park, Minnesota. I asked her about our family history.
“You were an accident.” That is what Nancy Sue, my mother, told me. In March 1957, I was born Timothy Guy Swanson in the Swedish Hospital in Minneapolis, Minnesota. She said I was almost born in a Yellow Cab.
Nancy said that at 16, she met my father, Gary Wayne Swanson, at the Minnesota State Fair. He was the Ferris Wheel operator. She said he was tall, with big, beautiful blue eyes, of Scottish descent, and a poet. Gary had been adopted by the Swanson family as a boy, but said she did not know the cause for adoption.
Shortly after meeting Gary, she became pregnant with me. They were married and still together when I was born, so I was not a “bastard”, she said. But they broke up and divorced within a year. While I have a remarkably good memory about my childhood, I have only the vaguest recollection of my father, but not in the home. He visited my brother and me while we were playing in the park. I did not know it was my father, and he made me promise not to tell my mother that we were talking to him. But I did tell her, and she became very angry. She forbade us from visiting the park for a while after that. She ordered us never to talk to this man again, saying he was bad. But when I talked to this tall, slender man, he had squatted down and humbly spoke to us. He looked me straight in the eyes, and I saw the emotion of love in those big, blue, watery eyes. I sensed no threat in this man. I knew my mom was not being forthright with me. He was not bad. That was the last time I saw my father.
After Nancy became a single mother, she started hanging out with drunks, drug users, and criminals. She herself started partying, drinking, and smoking pot. She said she did not like marijuana, because it made her” …head feel like it was spinning off…” (her words).
Going back to my earliest concrete memories, I clearly remember lying in my crib, with a white fabric securing my wrists to the crib's bars. I remember lying there and staring at the ceiling for long periods. While I do not actually remember my mother herself securing my wrists to the bars of my crib, someone had to have done it. I’m not sure how old I was, but I was old enough to free myself and climb out of the crib occasionally. I would leave the apartment and play naked in the street. Police would be called, but it took time before we were finally removed from our mother’s care.
Some of the other things I remember include Nancy meeting a man who was not very nice. Sometimes they got along fine. I didn’t know what it was, but I was scared by the intense noises they made together on the living room couch. At other times, they would have intense arguments out of our sight. I would hear him slap her, and she would run out of the room crying. He would leave and slam the door behind him. I don’t know if he ever hit her with a closed fist. Someone must have, because I remember seeing her with black-and-blue marks on her face a few times.
One day, when the boyfriend was over and she was out shopping, he said he wanted to show me something, but that I had to promise not to tell my mother. When I promised not to tell, he lifted a wooden plank from the floor and told me to look. I saw a black pistol lying on a light-colored cloth bag. He reached in, pulled out the pistol, and showed it to me. He let me hold it (with his help…it was too heavy for me to hold). The forceful stare from his eyes scared me. I smiled to hide my fear. He then removed the bag from the floor and removed currency from it. He told me he was a Bandito and that he robbed stores. That was the only interaction I remember having with him. Why he resorted to robbery, I do not know. My mother said he was an excellent artist and that some of his pieces were hanging in the Minnesota State Capitol. My mother was always terrified when she tried to break up with him, but they finally parted ways.
My grandfather, bless his heart, would come to our Minneapolis apartment and spend time with me. He was the only spot of calm and sanity in my young life. He would take me out for long, enjoyable walks. I really liked it when we went to a local park. We would toss bread to the birds and ducks that surrounded us on our favorite park bench. He was a Freemason. I am neither a Cowan nor a Catholic, so I am not sure what to think of the organization. All I know is that he spent time with me and seemed kind, compassionate, and even patient.
I was always thrilled when Grandpa would take me for rides in his genuine Model T Ford (yes, he really owned one). While driving, he would sit me in his lap and let me hold the steering wheel. He let me believe I was actually driving the vehicle. He would hold the wheel while I did, but he was skillful about letting me feel I was really steering alone. He would praise me and boost my confidence and self-esteem at every opportunity. He was such a loving and patient man.
On the couch at home, I enjoyed sitting at his side, rapt with fascination, watching him whittle branches into walking sticks. It was a ‘Day to Remember’ when he bestowed a shiny new jackknife upon me. He then commenced to teach me how to whittle wood with that jackknife. Whittling turned into a Zen-like activity that brought me meditative contentment. I used to spend hour after hour whittling little branches into sticks. My grandfather and I would have piles of whittled wood gathering between our feet. For me, the piles symbolized trophies of peaceful accomplishment. My grandfather treated me with dignity and respect and was always intelligently temperate and kind with me. He represented a trophy in my heart, and I will never forget him.
The day that my mother realized how much special attention my grandfather was paying to me, she told me I could never see him again. She said he was going to spoil me, and that she could not allow this. The last gift he gave me was a red rubber ball. He taught me the coordinated discipline of bouncing it while we walked. Fortunately, my mother changed her mind after a while, but she told my grandfather not to give me gifts if he wanted to see me again. It was not long after this that he died from a heart attack. He died while doing one of the things that he loved, whittling wood. My little brother sat on the right side of the couch, and I on his left. I realized something was different when he quit whittling the stick he was holding, and that he had been motionless for a while. I remember looking at his face. His eyes were wide open, staring straight ahead, and his mouth was agape. At the time, I did not know what death was. Since my mom was not home and we did not have a phone, we sat and waited for her to return. When she came home, she walked over to the canary cage to feed it. I told her something was wrong with Grandpa. She asked me how long he had been sitting like that. I do not remember my answer. She started crying and ran out of the apartment for help. She left the canary cage door open, and the canary was flying back and forth in the apartment, chirping wildly. I vividly remember having a spiritual awareness of my grandfather's spirit being present. I sensed that he, like the bird, was loose from its cage, that his spirit was now free. I sensed that he did not know what he was supposed to do.
I think it was after my grandfather passed away that my mother began drinking alcoholically and abusing illegal drugs. Her condition degenerated so much that she became abusive to us, her three children (Suzette, Lee, and me). She would go away for days at a time, leaving Lee and me tied up in our old baby cribs. I remember lying in my crib, staring up at the ceiling for long periods. I even remember looking out of my crib bars and wondering ‘why’ (not an adult-formulated ‘why’, obviously). We were found several times in our cribs quite dehydrated, but for some reason, the authorities kept giving her chances to get her life together, but to no avail. I occasionally managed to untie myself from my bonds, and I would go out stark naked looking for food. There were other times when my mother would leave us alone, but not tie us up in our cribs. I would go to the park alone and eat vegetation or discarded food from the trash containers. For some reason, my favorite things to snack on in the park were the elongated seed-bearing pods that fell from trees. I couldn't eat many of them because they upset my stomach, but I did like them. Because they were more filling, I would also shape mud into pies and eat them.
Because a citizen reported that my brother and I were naked outside eating mud pies, the State of Minnesota finally removed us from the custody of our mother. On the day we were taken away, it had rained. My brother and I were sitting in the gutter making mud pies from the moist dirt beneath vehicles. I remember forming three mud pies: one large, one medium, and one small. My brother and I were eating them when the police arrived. The police placed us in the back of a squad car and asked where our mother was. I said I did not know.
I remember seeing an elderly woman looking sadly at us from her apartment window. I had a feeling she was the one to call the police. I recall my mom, on several occasions, angrily referring to her as a “Busybody.” While the police were driving us away, I saw my mother on the street corner talking to another woman on an adjacent street corner. The other woman pointed toward the police car we were in as we drove away. My mother started running after the police car and waving. I remember my poignant disappointment about how quickly she quit running after the police car. I told the police, "There’s my mommy! Then I started pounding my little fists on the back window of the police car, screaming tearfully, "I want my mommy! I want my mommy! I want my mommy!" The police slowed the car and looked back at my mom. One cop asked the other, “Should we stop?” The other cop (I remember he had light white skin, bright red hair, and freckles) shook his head, and they took us to a local hospital ER.
In the ER room, I remember my little brother and I sitting naked next to each other on plastic hospital chairs. Nurses looked us over. Our stomachs were bloated and quite protruded, I suspect from eating dirt, and God knows what else. I remember my brother and I sitting next to each other Thankfully, the state of Minnesota removed my brother and me from my mother's care. The paperwork for these social services describes our abuse as the worst seen in the state of Minnesota at the time.
The state allowed my mother to keep our little sister, Suzette. Had the state of Minnesota known as I did the way mom treated Suzette, they would have pulled her out of her custody and sent Suzette to foster care as well. After Lee and I entered foster care, I think my mother managed to stay out of trouble. My mother is still a practicing alcoholic; she is living with Suzette in Hawaii. My mother has always been on my permanent prayer list. I have no resentments or pain about the way she treated us.
My mother told me the following story. After my mother gave birth to me in the Swedish Hospital, she said she was reading the book of Timothy in the Holy Bible. It was from reading that chapter of the Bible that she decided to name me Timothy. The name Timothy comes from the creek Timotheos (sometimes spelled Timotheus). “Timo” comes from the Greek word for "honor"; I think most of us know from whence the Greek “Theos” is extracted. Thus, Timothy means “Honor God”. I want to use my entire life as a walking song of love for God. God is always good. My mother said that I was an accident. But in God's economy, nothing is wasted.
During my sacred tour of duty on earth, I have experienced betrayal in ways best not described in polite company. When victims of abuse speak of their private pain, it breaks people’s hearts. Even when we speak of our healing journey, the gratitude of listeners subtly blends with empathetic sorrow. Some people might think it unwise for a person to wear their heart on their sleeve. But I will do it gladly.
When it is within my power, I will not miss an opportunity to show or tell someone I love them. In fact, it is what I think we are on earth to do, to love each other. Even if it ruins my reputation to be loving to someone, I will do it, because I do not ever want someone to say (and be right about) feeling unloved by me after having spent time with me. I heard a speaker say that if we do not tell at least three people a day that we love them, we have wasted a day of our lives. I think he’s wrong about that, because saying it only three times a day is aiming wayyyyyy too low. There are so many ways for us to say “I love you” that when I sat down with pen and paper to count and list them, I realized my effort was futile. I found out I was trying to fit an infinite shape into a finite vessel, and that never goes far enough. The truth is, every moment we are alive offers ways to tell people we love them. Maybe that is why when Shakespeare wrote, “How do I love thee, let me count the ways”…with all of the eloquence at his command, he did not even hint at one specific way of loving. No one ever…ever…loved me…until I came into Alcoholics Anonymous.
© Timothy G Cameron, December 2008