One of my more painful memories is centered on my cousin, Fremont. He was the son of my father’s brother, Freemont. (Yes, the spelling did differ for the two of them.) One of the limited commonalities we had was our last name. We both did very well in school; but that’s about where it ended. He was a year younger and may have felt the competition more keenly, the need to excel at what we knew and did. Physically he was much thinner, almost fragile. The family story claimed he had rheumatic fever at a young age. More importantly, over the years, he became much more popular than I. Each year in high school he was elected class president. Later, he was elected mayor of Niles and served in that role for well over twenty years.
Our mutual warfare began at an early age; I was in the second grade. We did play together, especially when we were at our grandparent’s house. One day when it was time to leave, to walk the mile to our individual homes that were only a few blocks from one another, it was discovered that his sister, Mary Ann, who had already been driven home, had accidently left her baby doll behind. My Aunt Mary thought it should be returned to her immediately and Fremont was assigned the task of bringing it home. He refused. Being older, I was then given the responsibility. I reluctantly carried the thing by a leg as Fremont and I trudged homeward. It was then that our battle began.
Although I had no desire to undertake the transfer of the baby doll, Fremont made the journey even more unbearable. He teased and mocked me without mercy. Every time we passed a group of kids as we hurried down the street, he would shout out for all the boys to look at me with my baby doll, how I loved playing with baby dolls, how I could not resist carrying mine wherever I went and how I was a real sissy and should be avoided at all costs. I grew angrier and angrier but there was nothing I could do, except walk as fast as possible and dangle the object as far away from my body as I could. I had been given the duty and had to carry it through. We finally got to my house. I threw the baby doll onto the back porch; now Fremont would have to undertake the terrible transfer. There was one more action for me to take. I had to beat him up.
There in my backyard, I began to punch him, to wrestle him, to force him to the ground, to make sure he knew how mad I was and that I would not be teased and mocked like that ever again. His wails quickly brought my father onto the scene. When he saw Fremont as the underdog, he yanked my arm, spun me around and began to spank me, hard. I was not supposed to beat up my cousin who was not well. My attempted explanation concerning the cause for my actions was unheard by the avenger. As further punishment I was to go to bed without any supper. Fremont scrambled up, grabbed the baby doll and headed home.
The battle over the baby doll had results vastly exceeding the behaviors of the moment. During the following years, my cousin and I had limited interactions. The major outcome, however, was the influence the encounter had on strengthening the feeling of hatred I held against my father, the one I referred to for decades afterwards as “He” or “Him,” both in spoken and written forms.
Yes, there were other causes for the spectrum of negative feelings I had against “Him,” but the earliest one I remember is this one. Not because I was spanked and sent to bed without supper, both being classical punishments for wrongdoing. Instead, I saw them as indications of His lack of trust in what I said; of His sticking up for a cousin who deserved his comeuppance; and His view that I was not worth defending myself under any circumstances. As I lay on my bed, hungry for what was being served downstairs, these thoughts and feelings took root within me. Over the years they grew into a deep despair that nothing positive would ever come from any interaction between me and Him. For the rest of my life, that baby doll had become a very heavy load to carry with or without further mockery from Fremont.