Hello, Andrea

Note: this piece was inspired by recent news about events in the life of the late-novelist Alice Munro and her daughter, Andrea Robin Skinner. I was also inspired to write this based on my earlier praise of the author and the piece written by Rachel Robbins (she has given me permission to provide a link to her work here):

A week can change everything…and bring old news home.

It is a beautiful Sunday. My plan is to work on a few other pieces and then maybe head out for a cultural festival and fireworks later in the day. I am sitting in my room, staring at this screen, with a very strong desire to go back to unpacking my clothes, knick-knacks and books.

Yes, I have a lot of books. As a former student of literature, I find that my addiction continues without any sense that I am being crowded out with paper and hardbacks. I think that when I finally pass away, these tomes will go to a library or a charity…or maybe just a landfill. I know how cynical that sounds, but I feel rather depressed as I look at my notes and wonder what I am trying to do with this piece.

It was another Sunday, just one week ago, when Andrea Robin Skinner came forward and released an article on the abuse and threats she faced at the hands of Gerald Fremlin, the former husband of Canadian writer and our first Nobel laureate, Alice Munro. The reason why her reputation has taken a dramatic dive – so soon after her death – is not just the fact of the assault on a young girl (she was nine years old at the time). What makes it worse in many eyes and minds is that fact that Alice was told about it – Andrea was 25 – and briefly left him…only to return to him. She chose a man who would eventually plead guilty to his crimes to her own daughter (in the same year, Ms. Munro would receive a Medal of Honor for Literature, adding to her haul of awards and prizes).

And I am sitting here wondering what to say about this.

I have already written about the abuse I have suffered at the hands of my father. I did not want to go back to that moment, but this situation has me pulling myself back to the computer, avoiding the smart-ass pieces and poems that I usually write, and creating some sort of way to detail what happened with other members of my family.

Silence.

This is the word that I cannot avoid. There was silence in the family until this young woman was brave enough to step forward. There was silence in the literary community in this country, many of whom knew all the details. And there was the worse silence of all from Munro, a woman who had the pulse of the nation and was deeply admired and respected across every line, even by people who had never read her stories. Simply having her win the Nobel made her an icon and a grand dame of literature, no matter what lurked in her family. So, why did she stay silent? Why would she make one of the worst choices a mother can make?

Silence.

Ms. Munro, like my father and mother and many members of my community, were born into what we now call the Silent Generation. This was a pre-World-War-Two group raised to not mention the unmentionable. As I noted, my father was a victim of abuse…and had no one to talk to. When I went through it, I felt as though there was no one I could talk to. As I mentioned, I used food, had fewer relationships with friends, and did not really date at all. I looked at the people around me as potential threats that I needed to avoid. But I could not go on that way. I was in my own generation called X (no identity; not even a real name). I was learning the guitar, going to shows, reading my work in public…and gaining attention. People who managed to pierce the emotional shield I had around me wondered, often out loud, why I did not date, why I had no real interest in relationships…and why I had not spoken up.

So, I did.

I finally told my mom, shortly before heading off to Tokyo.

And what was her response?

“I always suspected.”

And that was it.

I asked her what she thought when I stayed in almost every weekend, ate too much, had no social life, and could barely talk to her or the rest of my family beyond polite generalities.

She could not give me an answer.

Now, you might think that I am still angry over this…and you would be right. I was raised by a woman who had to take care of me and my brother after my father died (I was ten). I admired her strength and saw her as a role model whenever I felt that I could not do something. I was also raised in the Catholic Church and knew how important religion was to her. And I did not want to hurt her. But I had to tell her. And I also had to make a promise to myself that I would not ignore the signs of abuse if they ever reared up in my family. I have a nephew and niece and the temptation to cover them in armor was often tempting (no such abuse ever came their way). But I am still angry.

Yes, I have anger toward my mom, anger toward my brother who said that what happened to me was simply a “West Indian method of raising children” (no more chats about this with him), anger that it took a huge change in my life before I could share this story, and anger that I am still dealing with this in my life and mind.

I applaud Ms. Skinner for sharing this story and starting this dialogue. We are discussing this all over the media now and I hope that this is not something that passes when the next big story comes along.

And I wonder about my books.

I have collections of Ms. Munro’s stories in my boxes and at work. And I also have a biography of her life with Fremlin and the rest of her family. And I know that it will not include the truth we have learned.

And I wonder what to do now.

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Thank you for reading!

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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