Chapter 10: Captivity
The sky was pitch black,… a clap of thunder followed by the stark light of a bolt of lightning,… torrential rain, stormy sea, and ominously large rocks. I was floating in a flimsy rowboat… I realized… far too late the danger that I was in.
— Eliza Alys Young, My Dream
I awoke the next morning from a restless sleep. I was confused where until I sat up. For a few seconds I was convinced that I was lost at sea. When I stretched the sleep out of me, I realized it was just a vivid dream. I wasn’t in the middle of the ocean watching a storm batter the coast. The thunderclaps I thought I heard were booms and backfires from the trucks coming through the Holland Tunnel a block away. Rain clouds weren’t turning the sky grey, just plumes of smoke pouring out of vehicles. Unknowingly, my dream would portend the dangerous years to come.
— A foreign land —
Gazing out my bedroom window, I could see skyscrapers emerging from an expanse of pavement, but there were no fields to lie in, trees to sit under, flowers to gather, shells to discover, or waves to admire. New York City was as utterly foreign as another planet and toweringly impressive in its immensity. I shook off my musings, found something to wear, and ventured out to explore my new home. My father was still asleep and snoring loudly.
In the early 1960s, my father rented the loft on Canal Street after leaving the “JazzLoft.” The space was zoned commercial and used to house a sewing factory. When he took possession of the loft, its floors had become rotted from all the drops of machine oil spilled over the year and stuck in its grooves were thousands of discarded needles. Just as he had done before, my father made the illegal space livable. He nailed cheap masonite flooring over the original wood, framed and finished walls, ran electric wires, plumbed a sink, and installed a shower. When the housing authority discovered he was residing there, squatter rights laws protected him from eviction. By the time I came to live there, the zoning laws had changed. The loft was legal and even rent-controlled.
Many artists were covered by Loft Laws [benefiting those living in what were once commercial or factory spaces] and were protected.
— Andru Eron, The Rise and Fall of Pearl Paint, Artists Magazine, artistsnetwork.com
The loft was divided into three sections. To the north by the front door was my father’s office, the middle was the living room/studio space (their division delineated by the color of the floor), and the bedroom for both of us at the south end. I began my exploration with the office. In the middle of the room taking up almost all the floor space was a giant machine, about three feet wide by five long by three tall. Its surface was covered with spools, wheels, rows of levers, knobs, and switches. It reminded me of something from Star Wars. I was intensely curious, but didn’t dare touch it. After examining it for several minutes, I was unable to devise what it was for. My father later explained it was for editing film.
Along the wall of the office, parallel to the front door, was a long desk with a built-in lightbox for looking at slides and negatives. Opposite the desk were floor to ceiling shelves filled with an immense jazz collection on reel-to-reel tapes, record albums, and cassettes. The wall separating the office from the studio/living area had two holes: one square and the other circular. I was perplexed by them, but later learned they were for projecting films. The square one was for the projector, and the circular one allowed the projectionist to view the film. The back wall of the studio had two large rolls of paper, one white and one black, about twelve feet wide, that hung up by the ceiling about fifteen feet high. My father told me that the white roll doubled as a movie screen, but both were used as backdrops for photo shoots.
A narrow hallway, beginning at the front door, ran alongside the office to the living area. The hallway included the “kitchen” which consisted of a two-burner propane stove, a toaster oven, a blender, a small refrigerator, and a shelf for pantry items. Between the stove and the fridge was a doorway leading to a small bathroom with a shower, a toilet, and an overflowing litter box. My father had an immense orange cat, Ambrose, who he had adopted years before, and never neutered because he didn’t “have the heart to do it.” As a result, Ambrose had left his mark throughout the loft. I had to cover my nose to use the bathroom. The smell was so potent.
The living area had two platforms built into a corner with fabric-covered foam cushions and several throw pillows that served as the couch. The cushions were stained with cat pee, cigar ash, and other substances I couldn’t identify. Filling the corner by the couch was a large coffee table that was also used for meals. Resting in the middle was a 12” cast iron frying pan filled with ash and mashed-down cigar butts.
The white studio floor was smeared with drops and of paint in different colors. Several carts on wheels were scattered around and filled with art materials. There were palettes with bits of paint in various stages of dehydration, numerous brushes, scrapers and other tools, jars containing sea sponges, powders of various hues, and colored liquids. Everything I touched felt dirty from dust, paint, grease, and cat hair. I noticed that some of the brushes were homemade. When I examined them closer, I realized they were constructed from human hair tightly tied to a wooden dowel. A memory returned of how after a haircut, my father had asked to keep my discarded hair, saying he wanted to make paintbrushes from it. I didn’t think he would actually do it. Even creepier were the jars. At first glance, I thought they contained human fingers. I recoiled back in horror, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. Had I entered a bizarre fairy tale? Was my father a serial killer? Then I looked closer and realized that the “fingers” had screws at the end. I remembered seeing something similar and scanned the room. I spotted one in the wall over by the stove. They were just plastic hooks molded into the shape of human middle fingers. I couldn’t understand why my father put them in jars unless he wanted people to think they were real. I shuddered.
Decorating the loft were a mix of paintings, drawings, sculptures of gargoyle faces, quotes scribbled directly onto the drywall, crude pornographic cartoons, and numerous illustrations of a complex symbol of circles connected by bars. There were so many versions of the symbol in different color combinations, that I knew they were important. I was attracted to them. My father would later explain that the symbol represented the Tree of Life from the Qabala, a subject he studied in depth. He was an avid student of the occult as well, I would learn.
— first day —
By mid-morning, my stomach began to rumble. My father was still snoring, so I looked for something to eat. I settled on an open box of stale cereal and some milk that was slightly sour. I found a spoon and a small bowl, both which needed washing. After eating, came boredom. I tried to read a book, but it was hard to focus. Hours passed as I waited for my father to wake. In the early afternoon, he stumbled down from his bed, walked to the bathroom to “piss,” and barked at me brusquely to make him coffee. I had been so excited for the chance to interact with him after hours of silence. His demeanor stunned me. He’d never spoken to me that way.
I tried to make coffee, but I’d never used a coffee pot. My father went into his office, put on a jazz album very loud, and lit a cigar. Then he returned to the studio, moved a director’s chair into the middle, sat down, and began to stare at one of his paintings. I attempted conversation, but whenever I spoke, he held his hand up for me to be silent and continued staring at the wall. I returned to figuring out how to make coffee and eventually succeeded in producing some type of brown, hot liquid which may, or may not, be considered coffee.
It had been several hours since my bowl of stale cereal, so my stomach began to growl again. I scrounged around in the fridge, pulling out some stale white bread, sliced baloney, and yellow mustard. I’d have preferred something healthier, but it was all that was available. My mother wouldn’t have approved, My father was still ignoring me, but as soon as he saw me preparing a sandwich, he demanded I make him one as well.
After about an hour of sitting in silence, his cigar was smoked down, and his meal finished. Suddenly he emerged from his catatonic state, stood up, pulled out a large book of reprinted Disney comics, and placed it on one of the foam cushions. He pointed to me and then to the book before going into his office, putting on another jazz record, and settling in to make some phone calls.
I was bewildered. Was the comic book his feeble attempt to provide me with something to do? I flipped through a few pages, then closed it. I couldn’t concentrate. I felt restless, like time wasn’t moving. For hours he remained in his office, only emerging to use the bathroom or to switch his beverage from coffee to rum. I could hear him, muffled by the music, talking on the phone or typing on a typewriter. He still hadn’t spoken directly to me. I felt I was being punished. The father that had been so attentive and devoted to me was now shutting me out. I could only hope that this mood was temporary.
The reddened orb of the sun was hanging low on the horizon when he suddenly strolled out of his office to announce that we were walking to the grocery store. It was about seven to eight blocks, he said, or a 20-30 minute walk. I was so bored that I was eager for any break in the monotony. Once my shoes were on, we walked to the door.
To get in or out of the loft required several steps. Before unlocking anything, my father would carefully look through a fisheye peephole in the middle of the door to confirm that no one was outside on the landing. The front door had three locks plus a metal rod that rested in a hole in the floor and leaned up against the door at an angle to brace it. After peering through the peephole, he unlocked the top two locks and moved the rod to rest against the wall. With a tug and a creak, the door was opened. I watched everything with avid interest. Seeing this, my father paused, and addressing me directly for the first time that day, explained that the rod was there to prevent someone from breaking down the door. It was a shocking scenario to imagine considering that I’d just left a town where locks were rarely even used.
We exited the loft to a dreary and narrow landing, about four by ten feet with another loft directly opposite ours. My father locked our door three times. The third lock was locked or unlocked only from the outside, a detail that would soon become significant. A narrow staircase wound around a small elevator shaft in the center of the building. My father peered into a crack on the side of the shaft to see where the elevator was located. The elevator etiquette was as follows: you only rang the bell if you were on the bottom floor. If the elevator was a few floors above or below, you were expected to just go and get it. If the elevator was at the bottom of the building, then you were out of luck and had to walk down the six flights. With a loud, impatient scoff, my father left silently to get the elevator. I waited on the landing, unsure of what else to do.
On each floor, there were large windows overlooking Canal Street, all without screens or bars. Their size made me nervous. Sometimes during the summer months, the windows were left wide open and it was like I could easily be sucked out by the breeze to tumble to my death on the street below. I always considered the most dramatic possibilities. I’d stand as far away from the window as far as I could. Years later, when my mother visited, she had the same fear, but in her case, it was amplified by the possibility that my father might push her…
I heard clanging noises in the elevator shaft and then silence. Soon after, the elevator doors opened and my father stood there waiting for me to enter. The elevator was very small, only about six by six feet square. I had been so tired the night before that I barely remembered being in it. My father shut the main elevator door to our floor. To do this, he had to push the door to the left with considerable force until it clicked into place. Then, he shut the metal gate, which looked like parallel vertical rods when collapsed, but when stretched to the width of the elevator, expanded into diamond shapes. Once both the door and gate were shut, my father moved a large brass lever to the left. The elevator began to rumble and descend. It was scary to watch the floors pass by. When we got to the bottom, the timing had to be just right or we’d go too far and end up in the basement. One day years later, I was alone in the elevator when it got stuck partway into the basement. As luck would have it, there was a large trash barrel in the elevator at the time. After many tries to get the elevator to move, and numerous shouts for assistance, I rescued myself by climbing on top of the trash barrel, out through the top, and manually opening the doors on the first floor.
On this occasion, the elevator operated without issue. As we approached the ground floor, my father moved the lever to the right, then the left, until the elevator was even. Then he released the lever suddenly and the elevator jolted into a full stop. He unhooked the gate, pushed to it the right, where it collapsed back, and pulled open the outer door with a tug. With our passageway cleared, we exited into the dim lobby of the first floor and out of our building.
Now outside, I was struck by how bright and noisy it was. I soaked in my surroundings. It was hard to adjust to so much concrete. In less than a year, I’d gone from Northern Maine to Haiti to Coastal Maine and now Manhattan. Standing on the corner with horns blaring and cars crowding the streets as they jockeyed for position, I wished I was back in the jungles of Haiti or the woods of Maine instead of the cement landscape I was now in. The City’s overload of stimuli reminded me of the hospital with its sounds, smells, lights, people, and movement in all directions, but the rhythm was different. The hospital was a continuous series of overlapping events — patients, doctors, and procedures, all within a regulated structure with a singular purpose. NYC, by contrast, was chaos united by location. Its randomness is what made it so intense.
— neighborhood —
Our building was situated on the southeast corner of Canal and Church Streets in Lower Manhattan. Our neighborhood bordered Tribeca, SoHo, Little Italy, and Chinatown. Canal Street ran East to West, two blocks West was the entrance to the Holland Tunnel, and Church Street ran North to South. If you looked down Church Street at the corner of our building, you would see the World Trade Center about a mile away. Our block was mostly industrial with shops pressed next to each other and crammed full of merchandise. Some were mini-stores run by Asians selling knock-off designer jewelry, handbags, or sunglasses. Their booths were so small you couldn’t step inside. The larger shops on our block, interspersed amongst the booths, sold a range of eclectic raw materials such as slabs of foam rubber, colored plexiglass shapes, PVC piping in various sizes, wires, and many different kinds of electronics. I remember the window of the plexiglass shop in particular, because they displayed a range of plastic shapes and colors available for sale. Some were translucent and caught the sunlight at certain times of day, displaying a dazzling array of colors.
West of our building on the south side of Canal across Church Street, was the local post office, and past that was the entrance to the Holland Tunnel with its constant din of trucks. The steady plumes of black dust emitting from them created a coating of thick sludge on every surface. A few blocks west on the north side was West Broadway which marked the beginning of the SoHo art district. The streets were crammed with trucks, taxis, bicycles, motorcycles, and cars. Public trash cans were always overflowing and far between. Garbage clogged the storm drains and more litter was scattered in the corners of buildings.
Across Canal Street, directly in front of our building, was Crazy Eddie’s, a discount electronics store. Their advertisements ran on constant rotation on television, all featuring an overweight, red-faced man whom, I could only assume, was “Eddie.” In every ad, he declared by screaming, that his “Prices are insane!” The commercials aired so frequently that I thought they must be a huge company, but when I finally went into the store, I was surprised to discover that it was just a small, poorly lit shop crammed floor to ceiling with various electronics, parts, and cables. Its space was so tight that only a few people could be in the store at a time. Lights blinked, glowed, and flickered on all four walls like an alien ship. It was so dark inside that when we stepped out of the store, the sunlight assaulted us with its brightness. In later years, the store’s founder Eddie Antar, was convicted of fraud and the store closed down.
Down our block to the East was Broadway and the neighborhoods of Chinatown to the South, and Little Italy to the North. Along the length of the sidewalk, tables were set up to sell bootleg music cassettes and videotapes. The few police officers who patrolled the area would stroll past the bootleggers ignoring them, sometime even browsing their wares. In the middle of our block, on our side, was a huge, eight-story art emporium called Pearl Paint. It became my favorite place to visit.
The New York Pearl Paint store served professional artists and the trades for decades at its Canal Street location in lower Manhattan. It was instrumental in identifying this neighborhood as an artist destination…
— Wikipedia, Pearl Art and Craft Supply, en.wikipedia.org
Next to Pearl Paint was the Canal Jean Company, which at the time, was basically an army-navy discount store with large bins of clothes set up on the sidewalk in front of the store. One bin was filled with second-hand denim jeans, another with t-shirts, another with camouflage clothes, and so on. While I lived in NYC, Canal Jean evolved to become the hip place for the financially challenged yet fashion-conscious, to get dirt-cheap clothes. Canal Jean would be responsible for many fashion trends in the 1980s, but in the 1990s it morphed into a chic, high-end clothing store, which would cause it to close its doors.
Russack [owner of Canal Jean]credits himself with starting the craze for cargo pants, cutting them off below the knee and sparking labels like GAP, Polo Jeans and Levi’s to market them heavily in 1998.
— Sarah Gilbert, RETRENCHING CANAL: CANAL JEAN CO. – EVERYTHING MUST GO!, NY Post, Dec. 22, 2002
On the corner of the next block to the East was an iconic restaurant known as Dave’s Luncheonette. Dave’s was where the fountain drink called an “egg cream” was invented. Ironically, an egg cream does not contain either eggs or cream, but is made by mixing soda, milk, and flavored syrup. It had an unique taste.
When I was a young man, no bigger than this
— Lou Reed, Egg Cream, Blue In The Face, 1995
a chocolate Egg Cream was not to be missed
Some U Bet’s Chocolate Syrup, seltzer water mixed with milk
you stir it up into a heady fro, tasted just like silk
— first walk —
Standing in front of our building, I waited for my father’s cue to begin walking. Instead, he turned towards me, put his hands on my shoulders, and directed me to look him in the eyes. I was now a resident of New York City, he said, so he needed to warn me. “Only walk in the middle of the sidewalk. If you walk too close to the road, someone will grab you into their car. If you walk too close to the buildings, someone will pull you into a doorway. Most of all, never make eye contact with anyone!” He said these words with such conviction, his eyes growing big as he spoke, and his hands gesturing wildly for emphasis.
I looked around for evidence of the potential abductions that my father had spoken of. Given all the danger I’d faced so far, it seemed plausible that what he said was true, so I took his words to heart. During all the years I lived in NYC, I truly expected to see an abduction at any moment, but I never did. Still, I trained myself so well that years later, friends would tell me how they had said hello or waved to me from a car and I’d completely ignored them.
Once my father was comfortable that his warning had been received, he turned West, walked to the corner of Church Street. I followed. We waited for the crossing signal to change. Turns out that most signals didn’t work in the area and there were no traffic police to ensure one’s safely, so pedestrians were often forced to boldly weave in between traffic to cross. As soon as the signal switched, my father grabbed my hand and pulled me quickly to the opposing sidewalk, Then he turned and pointed towards our building. There was a mural of a Johnny Walker Red scotch bottle painted on the side. My father told me with a snicker that our loft was right in “the neck” of the bottle. He found this very amusing, but I didn’t get the joke. As long as the mural remained on our building, he’d describe the loft that way.
As I followed my father up West Broadway to the grocery store, I tried to record everything I saw to mentally review it later. We pass through the area where the majority of art galleries were located. In their windows were displayed pieces by Andy Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein, both Pop Artists which was the trending style at the time.
Our objective, the, was located one block south of Washington Square. The surrounding neighborhood was part of the extended “campus” of New York University, so it was frequented by college students. The exterior of the Grand Union looked run down. It was next to a large overgrown empty lot scattered with trash and surrounded by a chainlink fence. Homeless people were tucked away in corners of nearby buildings or pushing shopping carts overloaded with their life’s belongings. Their scattered energy and rants about injustices made me nervous, so I stuck close to my father.
Inside the grocery store, we shopped for convenience foods such as Hamburger Helper, canned soups, yogurt, toaster muffins, or waffles. Except for the occasional banana, fresh fruits or vegetables never made the list. Eating interfered with his “work,” so my father’s food choices were based on what was easy and quick. I was never asked what I liked or wanted. After purchasing enough to be easily carried in two balanced shopping bags, we walked home. I trailed a few feet behind him, watching his hunched silhouette trodding ahead of me. Every minute or so he’d turn to see if I was still there. Otherwise, he simply walked on ahead silently.
Arriving back at our building, my father fumbled for his keys, trying to avoid putting the bags down on the dirty sidewalk. Once inside, we rang for the elevator. Every so often we had a rare stroke of luck and it was already on the ground floor, but most of the time, there was a series of bell ringing, peering into the elevator shaft to determine progress, and waiting, lots of waiting. Another part of the etiquette was that if you had the elevator on your floor, especially if you were the last one to use it, you had to answer the call. Sometimes, a tenant failed to respond to the buzzer entirely. This could be because they were taking a nap or just didn’t hear it. When this happened, it was considered a violation and treated as an extreme oversight. For several subsequent weeks, there’d be a grand exchange of loud words and threatening hand gestures between the affected tenants.
— new normal —
My father set the bags down in the loft and took a seat, leaving me to unpack the purchases and put them away. Once that task was complete, he rose from the couch, grabbed a large can of soup off the shelf, a loaf of bread, butter, and the can opener. He set them all in front of me, gestured like a director in a movie and sat back down. It took me a moment to understand that he wanted me to cook dinner. I had cooked along with Tante, but never prepared a meal on my own before. It was just soup and toast, but at eleven-years-old, it was still daunting. I opened the can, tentatively chose a saucepan, rinsed it off, poured in the soup, placed the pan on the stove, and then stopped. The stove was propane and had to be manually lit. I’d never used a gas stove before and didn’t know how to light one. Meanwhile, my father remained comfortable on the couch, watching the news and ignoring me. I asked for his help. He grumbled at the interruption, but did nothing. I softly repeated my request. Just like that morning, he held up his hand to silence me, so I stood immobile, unable to proceed. As if he finally recognized I couldn’t solve the issue on my own, he rose from his seat, walked over to the stove, took a pack of matches, and showed me how to light the burner. The flame burst up, startling me with its blue flickering, both dazzling and intimidating at the same time. With his instruction complete, he refreshed his drink and went back to his seat. I warmed the soup, toasted the bread, and served us both. It was sustenance, but I missed the camaraderie and flavors of Tante’s kitchen where we made so many tasty memories together. Afterwards, I didn’t wait for him to tell me, I just washed the dishes. I was a quick study.
When I was done cleaning up, my father indicated for me to have a seat. With my full attention, he explained in detail about what a crime-ridden world existed outside, one that he alone could protect me from. We didn’t live in a good neighborhood, he said, so I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without him. He spoke with the same intensity as earlier on the street. I wouldn’t be going to school, he continued, because the public school zoned for our area was simply too dangerous, especially given my handicap. It was a lot to take in.
As if on cue to reinforce his words, I heard shouts and loud “pops” coming from the street below. I was startled by the sound, but my father remained silent. I was curious what was going on so I pushed up a window and peered out. Down below, I saw police chasing a man running around our building. The man moved quickly, stopping to look around, and it appeared that he had something in his hand which could’ve been a gun. My suspicions were confirmed when I heard shots firing in both directions. I was transfixed. It was like a scene out of a movie. After a few seconds, my father reached over, pulled me back in, and shut the window.
Before long everything calmed down outside. The suspect had either been caught or escaped; I didn’t know which, while my father continued to ramble about that dangers he was protecting me from. I was sleepy so I told him I wanted to go to bed. He nodded. A few seconds of silence passed before I understood that there was no bedtime fanfare. I went to brush my teeth, wash my face, and said good night. He responded with a grunt and began setting up the studio to paint.
It was hard to sleep. The brown dots had vacated my bed now that they realized it would be regularly occupied, but my father had turned the music up full volume and put on the overhead studio flood lights. It was so loud, even louder than the night before, that it felt like a full band was playing right next to my bed. The lights lit up my bed as bright as an examination room. My father painted until the early hours of the morning, something he would do nearly every night.
I would learn that I wasn’t the only one affected by his “artistic process.” The tenant in the floor below was rarely there, but my father had a contentious relationship with the upstairs neighbor: Nina. She was a Ukrainian woman, also an artist, who had lived there for years. She painted beautiful, oversized flowers close up like lilies, irises, or orchids that were clearly inspired by Georgia O’Keefe. My father claimed she was a repressed lesbian who subconsciously painted vaginas. Any woman who was not sexually attracted to him would receive a similar description. If Nina was home when my father commenced his nightly routine of blaring jazz until four or five in the morning, there’d be drama. First, she’d stomp on the floor. He’d ignore her. Then she’d come downstairs and bang on the door. He’d continue to ignore her. Given no other option, she’d call the police. When they’d arrive, my father would answer the door, be civil to the officers, and turn the music down. The police would leave thinking their job was done, but after waiting 10-15 minutes, my father would turn the music up even louder. It was a fruitless cycle. He always complained about Nina’s uptightness, but never adjusted his behavior.
As I lay in my bed, dozing and waking up over and over, my eyes kept returning to the two, tall pillar-like structures that dominated the skyline. I stared at them out my bedroom window throughout the night. No matter how late it was, they always had some lights on. “Go to bed!” I said and then tried to take my own advice. The World Trade Center became my illustrious nightlight, a companion during those sleepless nights.
— boredom —
From that first day forward, except for the daily walk to the grocery store, I was confined to the loft nearly 24/7. I had turned eleven shortly before I came to NYC and now was without a school to attend or peers to interact with. My only companion was my moody, unpredictable father. I’d get so bored that I’d be compelled to interrupt him. If I was lucky, he’d respond with a sullen or irascible attitude, but sometimes he’d explode in anger without warning.
In just a few short weeks, my world had radically changed. I was forced to come to terms with my new normal. Daytimes were the hardest. I spent them predominantly alone. My biggest challenge became ways to fill the huge chunk of hours that I would’ve spent in school. The classroom had been a lifeline of positive reinforcement for me. I missed it so intensely that I would’ve even welcomed bullies just to go back.
Daily, I’d wake up mid-morning, get dressed, and eat breakfast on my own. While my father slept, usually until the afternoon, I’d occupy myself with quiet activities like drawing or reading. Once he was awake, I’d attend to his grouchy demands for coffee, sustenance, and clean up afterward. Afterward, he’d go into his office for the rest of the day to hustle for money. He’d call people to invest in one of his projects, purchase a piece of art, or to get invited to fancy events.
When my father went into his office, it was my cue that I could turn the television on. With no school to occupy me, that first year while he “worked,” I watched a lot of television. The selection of shows I had to choose from were mostly reruns from the 60s like Gilligan’s Island or That Girl, but in the afternoon, when school would have been out, there were a couple of hours of educational programming on PBS. I always looked forward to it. My mind was eager to expand and acquire knowledge, so I learned where I could. During my first year in the loft, in addition to copious television viewing, I read the entire works of Shakespeare, the full collection of Sherlock Homes stories, and many others books. I was still learning somewhat, but I had no peer support, teacher guidance, curriculum to follow, or community to belong to. My father completely isolated me.
My father appeared to be ignoring me, when in actuality, he was exerting complete control. He selected and monitored all the entertainment that I consumed. The books I read were only those he gave me. I had no access to libraries or money to spend at the bookstores we visited. The music I listened to was the jazz he played. I didn’t even have a radio. As for the television I watched, if he didn’t like something, he’d order me to change it or just turn it off.
One time I mentioned that I wanted to play the flute again. I’d played for years when I lived with my mother and thought it would be an enjoyable way to spend my free time. My father quickly dismissed the idea. My mother had played the flute, so anything associated with her was off limits. Instead, he got me a second-hand, compact trumpet that I didn’t know how to play. He didn’t pay for lessons, just put on jazz record and told me to “improvise.” With the flute, I had learned to read music. I found improvising too different. Despite having a “natural embouchure” and a fondness for Louie Armstrong, I didn’t take to the trumpet, and after much pushing, my father abandoned the idea of me becoming a jazz musician. The trumpet collected dust, and I remained bored.
He even controlled all forms of communication. To make a long-distance call, I needed a special code which he never gave me. I had no numbers to call anyway, and if I had, he would’ve listened to every word. Sending a letter was also prohibitive. I could write one, but my father had to provide the envelope, address, stamp, and permission to mail it. I felt like a prisoner in solitary confinement who is granted less than an hour a day outside of her cell.
— poverty —
On our daily shopping trips, I noticed my father paid with what looked like coupons instead of money. When I asked, he told me they were food stamps. They were what the government gave poor people to pay for groceries, he explained. I didn’t realize we were poor;I didn’t even know what that meant. Within a week of my arrival to the loft, my father took me with him to the welfare office. We waited for hours over multiple days in that depressing lobby. When our turn finally came, my father applied for additional benefits due to “his daughter’s” handicap and requested to be excused from looking for work because he had to “care for me.”
Life with my mother had been modest, but I always had what I needed. I entertained myself with picking wildflowers, playing in nature, or being creative so I wasn’t focused on material things. My playground was the outdoors or within my imagination. My mother never pointed out our lack, so I didn’t realize it was there. My father, on the other hand, wasn’t the least bit embarrassed to admit our poverty. He constantly complained about spending money while openly subsidizing his life with hand-me-down clothes and any events with free food. Unless it was an emergency or someone else was footing the bill, he never spent money on anyone but himself.
We didn’t have to be poor. Throughout his life, my father refused to sacrifice anything to improve his economic situation. He deliberately chose not to work a “straight” job, because his immense talent made it beneath him. Instead, he scrambled after any opportunity to obtain money easily. If he failed to do so, he’d complain bitterly while readily taking advantage of available social services and the generosity of friends. A handout was not only welcomed, but expected. My father often talked “nostalgically” about how in the Renaissance, artists were supported by patrons, while ignoring the many challenges of that period. He openly sought a patron for himself that would free him from all financial pressure. He never achieved that goal, but whenever he did obtain money, whether from a donation, sale of a painting, or a small job, he immediately spent it on art supplies or equipment. His priority was always to further his career. No new clothes or toys for me… ever.
Our poverty became an easy and effective way for him to scare me into dependence. One morning, there was a knocking at the front door. It got louder and louder until it was so strong our door vibrated for several seconds after impact. Then someone, probably the same someone who was rattling our door, started yelling about how the rent was past due. If it wasn’t paid, the disembodied voice said, we’d be “kicked out on the street!” During my years in the loft, I heard these threats repeated at regular intervals. My father was always behind on the rent. But the first time the landlord came to our door, I had just moved there. I didn’t know the banging and yelling was merely to intimidate us. I didn’t understand that even though the rent was late, we couldn’t be thrown out without an extensive process. Meanwhile, as the pounding of the unknown fist persisted, and the bracing bar on our door shook, my father made no attempt to reassure me. In that first year, I was thrust into a state of constant crisis. My father reminded me daily of how little we had and what we couldn’t afford. I feared that things could go from bad to worse and we’d become homeless. I was terrified by the prospect of ending up on the dirty streets of New York City with no roof to protect me, no door to lock, or bed to be tucked into. My father used this fear to justify his actions. When I was older, he even went so far as to commandeer my babysitting earnings “to keep us off the street.”
— loneliness & locks —
For years, my father’s singular goal was to take me away from my mother. Now he had his prize of possessing me, but that meant he was responsible for a dependent, handicapped child. For his whole life, he’d spent his time 100% on his own terms. He kept his own schedule, slept or woke whenever he wanted, went wherever the urge took him, and partied nearly every night of the week. When I came to live with him, I quickly cramped his style. He still kept his own hours, listened to blaring jazz all night, and drank or smoked as much as he pleased, but when he wanted to go out, he didn’t know what to do with me. At first he brought me with him wherever he went. That worked some of the time, but if he stayed anywhere for a while, it was impractical to have me tagging along, I’d often get tired and complain to go home. My father was unwilling to spend money for my care, so he decided that age eleven was old enough to be left alone for a few hours. He used the third lock, the one on the outside of the door, to secure me in when he had to go out, effectively making me a prisoner in my own home. He told me the lock was “for my safekeeping,” but in an emergency, my only option to evacuate would have been via the fire escape, a challenge with my wonky legs.
In that first year in the loft, I spent hours alone without any friends or confidants to share my feelings with. The loneliness felt crushing at times. I missed being around kids my own age so intensely that I plunged into a deep depression. Even in the past when I had been pulled out of school and hospitalized for months, I’d managed to make a few fleeting friendships. Now I had zero contact with anyone my age, not even the briefest sliver. I remember one day passing a park where kids were playing and wishing I could join in.
My loneliness felt like an insurmountable problem without solution, but I was a determined child who had faced many challenges, so I didn’t give up easily. I searched my brain to see if I could find any way to have peer interaction and came up with an idea that’s seemed so exciting, it felt like an inspiration. “What if my father adopted a girl my age?” That way I could have a sister, a friend, and a playmate. With the utmost confidence, I proposed my idea to my father. Of course, he shot it down.
For days, I begged my father to adopt a sister. I presented reason after reason, arguing that she could help with the housework as well as keep me company, offering to give up space in my bed area for another bed. We could make it work, I pleaded. I was convinced that I had arrived at the perfect solution, but being just a child, I didn’t understand how completely impractical it was. My father wouldn’t have qualified to adopt and there wasn’t space for another child in the loft. Even if it had been possible, there was no guarantee the adoptee would have become my friend. She probably wouldn’t have enjoyed living there any more than I did. But I didn’t think of any of these things because I wasn’t being logical. Looking back, I understand now that the intensity of my desperation prompted my emotional plea.
The hope that I would get a sister was soon dashed and weeks turned into months. My father spent more and more time out of the loft, leaving me stuck inside alone. On one of these times, the phone rang. I felt like I should answer in case he was calling, so I picked up the phone.
A male voice on the other end that I didn’t recognize said “Hello.”
“Are you calling for my father David Young? He’s not here right now.”
“I am a friend of your father,” the man replied. I relaxed.
“Can I give him a message?” I said, trying to be helpful.
He didn’t respond for a few seconds. “How old are you?” I thought was odd he was asking me questions, but assumed he was just being friendly.
Then he said, “What do you like doing for fun?” I started to feel nervous.
“I like to draw,” I stammered.
“That’s nice…” he paused. A feeling of wanting to get off the phone rushed over me.
“What are you wearing?” he continued.
That seemed a really odd question, why did he want to know that? Always the obedient child, I answered shakily “just a t-shirt and shorts.”
When he followed up with “What color is your underwear?” I suddenly felt flushed and my heart began to race. Before the words could be formed to answer, I hung up the phone.
Later when my father returned, I told him about the call. His response was that it was my fault I answered. I explained that I thought he might be calling, but he just repeated that if I hadn’t picked up the phone, I wouldn’t have had the conversation. With my father, everything was someone else’s fault. He never accepted responsibility for anything. I was left feeling ashamed.
After that call, I felt too vulnerable to be alone in the loft, and would protest heavily whenever my father went to leave without me. I made such a fuss that he decided to asked our neighbors, a young couple from England, if they’d be willing to watch me.
The neighbors, Gavin and Anna, lived on our floor and had an infant baby boy. They were relatively new to the building. When I went to their loft, I marveled at how much nicer it was than ours. They offered me tea and cookies and started making conversation. At first I was too shy to say much, but little by little, as the hours passed and they kept engaging me, I gradually overcame my shyness and began to open up. I thought to myself that maybe this was my chance to improve my situation. I began to share my feelings about living with my father. I was careful not to describe the full depth of how unhappy I was, just telling them how lonely I was without friends. My hope was that maybe they could convince him to let me spend time with kids once in a while.
I am particularly anxious about my daughter’s welfare at this time because she is now very frightened and unhappy and is not even associating with kids her own age much — she doesn’t attend school.
— Katherine Merrick, Letter to Children’s Rights, Inc., June 29, 1979
Gavin and Anna listened with sympathy and a desire to help. When my father got back that evening to pick me up, they asked to talk to him. Their tone was warm and friendly, not confrontational at all. My father gestured for me to go to the loft and he locked me in. Then, he went back across the hall to hear what they had to say. I put my ear to the door and listened.
I heard the soft spoken lilt of Anna’s voice and the calm, yet deeper, voice of Gavin’s. I couldn’t hear what they were saying exactly, but I recognized my name. After only a few minutes, I heard my father bellow loudly “Don’t tell me how to raise my daughter!” A slew of insults and expletives followed. When he approached our door, I scurried down the hallway to the living room. I didn’t want him to know that I’d been listening. He unlocked the door, slammed it shut, stormed over to a metal box mounted in the wall by the refrigerator, and flicked several switches.
“You are not to talk to them ever again!” He screamed at me. “Pieces of shit, assholes, scumbags…” he continued ranting. I cowered in the corner and retreated to my bed. I avoided him for the rest of the night.
The next day when the police knocked on our door. I overheard the officer telling my father that he had to turn the neighbor’s power back on. I watched him go over to the same box and push the switches back the other way. That’s when I figured out that the metal “box” was a fuse box for the entire floor, our loft and theirs. When the building had become residential, the breakers were never separated into individual lofts. As punishment for speaking on my behalf, my father had cut the electricity to Gavin and Anna’s loft. When I realized what happened, I felt horrible. I had underestimated my father’s wrath. I vowed to never to put anyone in that position again.
A gentle person is like a circle. An angry person has sharp corners.
— Eliza Alys Young, 1979
— terror & manipulation —
The more time that passed, the more I realized how flawed my father was. For years, he’d presented himself as generous, caring, and devoted, so naturally I had adored him back. The incident with Gavin and Anna showed me a complete different side of his personality, one devoid of empathy, mentally unstable, and full of rage. He was a narcissistic sociopath, although I didn’t know the terms back then, incapable of considering how his actions affected me. Similar to the classic cautionary tale, The Strange Case of Jekyll and Hyde, I had known my father as Jekyll when his “Hyde” had been lurking within him all along. But unlike the story, my father did not have an alter ego trapped in his psyche, it was his true personality.. It had all been a ruse.
I came to myself as if out of a great sickness… an unknown but innocent freedom of the soul. I knew myself, at the first breath of this new life, to be more wicked, tenfold more wicked, sold a slave to my original evil and the thought, in that moment, braced and delighted me like wine.
— Robert Louis Stevenson, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
After the blowout with the neighbors, my father took steps to isolate and control me even further. He ensured that there was no one for me to turn to. The only people I came in contact with from that point forward were close friends. It didn’t matter. No one was safe to talk to because my father was always nearby. If I had the chance to say something, what would it even be? My father knew how to spin anything to come out as the hero. “Why do you keep your daughter out of school?” He’d reply that the zoned school was too dangerous for a handicapped child. “Why don’t you let your daughter see her mother?” He’d say that my mother had tried to harm me. “Why doesn’t your daughter spend time with kids her own age?” “Because kids are bullies and he was shielding me from them.” “Why did you bring her to an adult event?” He’d respond that he didn’t trust anyone to care for me… and so on. I knew how it would go, so I never bothered to try.
I had survived so many challenges by then, that living with my father felt like just one more. I tried to make peace with my situation. This too will pass, I told myself. The only thing I could do was understand the dynamics and minimize the negatives. I stopped trying to talk to him in the morning or interrupt him when he was working. I attended to my duties of cooking and cleaning without objection, kept myself quiet, and stayed out of the way. I was able to avoid some of his triggers, but he had so many. One time, he got so angry that he threw a wooden director’s chair across the room. It landed with enough force to splinter into many small pieces. I don’t even remember what I said that set him off.
Despite my best efforts, that first year felt like I was living in a war zone. The most difficult trigger to avoid by far was my striking resemblance to my mother. Whenever we were in public together, I used to hear people say I was a miniature version of her. I had been proud of our similarities, but learned not to discuss anything associated with her around my father. One time, he was eating a cup of cherry yogurt — I remember the color specifically: sickly pink like Pepto Bismol — when he walked up to me menacingly from across the room. He cornered me in the hallway by the refrigerator and without warning, grabbed me by the arm so tight that his grip left a bruise for over a week. Then, he screamed close to my face “You look just like your mother!!” as if that was a sin. His voice boomed in my eardrums. He took the partially eaten yogurt and smashed the plastic cup against my skull, grinding it into my hair, until it crumpled and cherry sludge dripped down the side of my face. The only physical injury was the bruise, but he had terrorized me. As with most of his outbursts, I didn’t know what he was angry about until later when he told me to never put my hair into a bun because it was a style my mother often wore.
It would take years to fully unpack the dynamics I found myself in, but all the time I spent alone, immersed thought, allowed me to connect the dots. Back in Haiti, my father had followed the classic predator playbook to groom me into submission. He convinced me that living with Tante would be better for everyone, but the life I was “agreeing” to was not living in the middle of a big city with a man I barely recognized. While he never molested me again, I experienced the threat of potential violence in that first year which was abusive. My memories of his past transgressions were safely tucked away, but I felt like I’d been abducted by a random stranger. I was on high alert. That’s when it hit me like a punch in the stomach: my father had kidnapped me for the fourth time.
To be able to actually kidnap somebody is incredibly difficult. Then to be able to maintain this ruse for years and years really takes somebody who has very little empathy for anybody else. It really does take a sociopath.
— Julie Miller, Abducted in Plain Sight: Even More Shocking Details About Jan Broberg’s Kidnapping, Vanity Fair, Feb. 14, 2019
Meanwhile, during that entire first year, my mother was unable to see me. I was now states away, so it was a complicated process to garner the resources to get me back. When I went to live in Boothbay with Tante she didn’t fight for custody, but now I was alone with my father in his loft in NYC. She knew full well what he was capable of and was so worried about the possibility of sexual abuse. She reported her fears to Child Protective Services (CPS) in New York.
The situation with Eliza is so awful I can’t get it out of my mind. I’m not an alarmist but this article [The Shocking Facts Behind Incest in American Families] really hit home — even though he may not be doing anything — yet… He is a vicious, sick man and somehow this truth must come out.
— Katherine Merrick, Letter to Attorney Ivan Hametz, Nov. 15, 1979
One day, my father was in his office when the phone rang. It was CPS following up on my mother’s report. I could tell from his tone that something was up. His voice got aggressive and I heard him say “What is this about? My daughter is fine! Who reported this?” His voice got louder with each word he spoke. I was alerted that the call was about me.
My father set the phone down and strode into the living area. He pointed to me and then to the phone in the living room. “Pick up the phone,” he ordered, “someone needs to speak to you.” He waited until I’d lifted the receiver before returning to his office. I tentatively said hello. A nice lady on the other line introduced herself and asked if it was okay to talk with me about my living situation. I softly said yes. The lady was unaware that my father was listening when she asked me several questions, starting with my full name, my age, names and location of my parents, if I had any siblings, and how long I’d been living there. I answered all the questions, careful not to embellish. Then she asked me if I was happy “living with my father.” Boy, that was a tough question to answer. Truthfully I was unhappy, but how could I tell her that? Even if I told her everything and that instigated action on the part of CPS, I knew at my core there would be consequences. At the very least, my father would punish me somehow and at the worst, he would hide me far away and I’d never see my mother again. I felt that nothing good would come from telling the truth, so I answered, “Yes, I am happy.” Then she asked if my needs were being met and I answered yes again. Lastly, she asked if my father was “touching me” in any way that made me uncomfortable. I said “no.” With that, the call was concluded and the lady hung up.
I write in desperation over my daughter, Eliza Young, aged thirteen. She has been residing with her father in Manhattan in his filthy loft on Canal Street for the past three years… She does not attend school… My lawyer is convinced that it is an incestuous situation which I can’t even let myself believe or I’d go in and machine-gun his door down… I’ve called the Child Protective Services who said they called her on the phone and she told them she was alright. A big help. I explained to them that she will never, in his presence or his place, admit to anything. When I talk to her on the phone, it is him talking. He tapes all calls too. When I see her it is a different story. She hates for me to leave her side. She is afraid to speak up, but by showing me her diary, which is a very sad story of being in the loft almost all the time with TV to all hours and many fights with her father. I would snatch her in a minute but he is ready for that.
— Katherine Merrick, Letter to Children’s Rights, Inc., Nov. 1980
No one ever came to the loft or talked with me in private. CPS told my mother there was “no evidence of abuse.” I had initially hoped the call might lead to possible help, but as the days and weeks passed without action, I realized nothing was going to change. No one was going to rescue me and the father I’d known was never going to return.
The most pervasive long-term consequence of father-daughter incest is the effect on the child’s self-image. Many daughters feel worthless and suffer guilt and depression all their lives.
— Blair and Rita Justice, The Shocking Facts Behind Incest in American Families, Speaking Out, Oct. 30, 1979
— MF—
When my father took me to NYC, it shifted our relationship permanently and over the course of that first year, it only got worse. We existed in opposite realities. In my father’s twisted mind, he had rescued me from my “wicked” mother and therefore I should be grateful. He never considered how disruptive his actions were or what I was forced to leave behind. He was a hero, a narrative he perpetuated throughout my life. Yes, NYC was a dangerous place, but he could safeguard me, and he’d done a great deed by bringing me there. It didn’t have to make sense. I just had to trust explicitly whatever he said as the “truth.” Continuing with his logic, when he asked me to help around the loft, he saw it as the least I could do to express my gratitude and “earn my keep.” My father effectively cast me into indentured servitude, just like human traffickers who charge people exorbitant fees to provide safe passage and then demand they work to pay back the costs of their voyage. The trick is that no matter how long they work, their debt is never paid down. They become slaves, yet the smugglers claim to be helping them. I never desired passage in the first place.
I want everything back, the way it was. But there is no point to it, this wanting.
— Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale
In that first year, my only comfort was the knowledge that once I turned 18, I could legally leave no matter what. It seemed like a lifetime. I had no outlet except for my diary, which I hid well. On many a night, I poured my heart out until my tears stained its pages.
From this point forward in my story, I will no longer refer to him as my father. He is MF. Biologically he will always be my father, but he was also quite the motherfucker…
oceanic
heart flutter lures the undertow,
vortex of uncertainty;
liquid floods every pore
doubt my own veracity.
sinking fast i feel the shock
cold water turns blue to black,
seaweed grapples to my limbs
mermaid mummy i descend.
i round the corners of my mind
reasons found to pursue
yet i yearn to be the one
for whom your love i can’t refuse
shackled at the waters depth
i linger on the ocean floor
realize, i submerged myself
promise, i shall no more.