This kid was me too—the outcast, the hypervigilant one. I scanned every room, every glance, because nowhere was safe. And nobody either. I wasn’t raised with freedom. I was raised with surveillance. First came my mother’s law. Then my father’s. Then the German law. That was the hierarchy.
I still remember the one time I dared to miss a class. Just once. I came home at 1 p.m.—early '80s small-town Germany—and she was already standing at the door, arms crossed. “Where were you?” I said, “At school.” She replied, “No, you weren’t. Your teacher was her patient, just after the hour that would have been my class.” I couldn’t hide anything. She had connections. It was George Orwell’s 1984—but in my case, it happened in 1980. That was the level of control.
I didn’t dare kiss anyone. Have a relationship. Not until I was 30. Not until the silence inside me cracked just enough to let in someone else’s breath. I somehow made it into a relationship after that. Rainbow-colored, fragile, not too close, but close enough to count and 22 years. A tiny rebellion that took three decades.
Mary, your words didn’t just echo—they unlocked something. This wasn’t just about the kids. It’s about how we were never safe enough to be kids in the first place. And yet somehow, we still made it. Bruised, yes. Scarred, sure. But here. We survived and we are here to talk about it, to share the stories that they said, should stay untold.
Thank you for not looking away. I could have used that safe space too.
Wow! This is such a powerful piece. I felt incredible emotion reading it and am so glad you have. Thank you.
This kid was me too—the outcast, the hypervigilant one. I scanned every room, every glance, because nowhere was safe. And nobody either. I wasn’t raised with freedom. I was raised with surveillance. First came my mother’s law. Then my father’s. Then the German law. That was the hierarchy.
I still remember the one time I dared to miss a class. Just once. I came home at 1 p.m.—early '80s small-town Germany—and she was already standing at the door, arms crossed. “Where were you?” I said, “At school.” She replied, “No, you weren’t. Your teacher was her patient, just after the hour that would have been my class.” I couldn’t hide anything. She had connections. It was George Orwell’s 1984—but in my case, it happened in 1980. That was the level of control.
I didn’t dare kiss anyone. Have a relationship. Not until I was 30. Not until the silence inside me cracked just enough to let in someone else’s breath. I somehow made it into a relationship after that. Rainbow-colored, fragile, not too close, but close enough to count and 22 years. A tiny rebellion that took three decades.
Mary, your words didn’t just echo—they unlocked something. This wasn’t just about the kids. It’s about how we were never safe enough to be kids in the first place. And yet somehow, we still made it. Bruised, yes. Scarred, sure. But here. We survived and we are here to talk about it, to share the stories that they said, should stay untold.
Thank you for not looking away. I could have used that safe space too.
– Jay
Jay, you weren’t fragile. You were surviving.
That silence you carried? That kiss at 30?
Rebellion. Bravery. Healing.
You’re right—this isn’t just about the kids.
It’s about us.
The ones who were never safe enough to be them.
Thank you for sharing what others buried.
You’re not alone. You never were.
Mary, I know that today. And still they want to bury our stories. Say we are a disgrace, a burden, an imposition. I know I am not, and yet…
Whoo hoo! This one is so true and needed to be written.