Blog # 3- Kristi DeMeester

**I would like to preface this story by explaining that this is the story that I have not exactly told in its entirety yet. It has been to difficult to face, too horrifying to relate, and honestly, much of the story is still too difficult to talk about, but this is some of it., and you guys are the first.**

When I was very young, so young I cannot remember how old I actually was, my father made the decision that his family should be members of a Pentecostal church in Lithia Springs, Georgia. My mother still talks about how shocked she was by his desire to join this church since neither of them were religious, but the decision was made, and Pentecostals we became. Thinking back on my childhood, being a member of this church is all I can remember, or perhaps it would be better stated that I can remember is the rules of being a member of the Pentecostal church. By following the rules, my family could not own a television set, could not attend any movie or non-sanctioned theater production, could not listen to secular music, could not read non-approved books, and could not own or use a computer. Families with children were strongly discouraged from sending the kids to public school; therefore, most of the children attended the church’s small private school. The only world news we received was usually found on the airwaves of a local Christian radio station. As a female, I was not allowed to cut my hair or wear makeup or jewelry. Pants were forbidden, and the mandatory skirts had to fall below the knee. Reasoning for these rules all pointed towards the possibilities of vanity and drawing lewd attention to oneself. Males could not wear their hair long since that was meant to be feminine.
I loved to read and write as a child and was convinced I was going to be the youngest writer ever published. I kept a secret diary and forbidden book stash in my closet. I’ll never forget the day my father found those items. It was August 18, 1994; I remember the date because it was two days before my birthday. I remember him calling me into my bedroom and closing the door, his belt open in his hand. I’ll never forget his words, “What is this crap you have here, Kristi? You think you won’t go to hell for writing this smut? You think God will be happy that you are writing about things that won’t please him? Don’t you think if he wanted you to do stuff like that, he would have given you the talent? Bend over.” He left the belt open. There is a faint scar on my lower back where the buckle caught flesh. I vowed to never write or read again.

I grew up in the Pentecostal church and the school without ever questioning the reasoning behind such stringency, but things at home were not going well. My father had always been a frightening man, but as the years marched on, things became much worse. After years of quiet, and then not so quiet abuse, my mother gathered the courage to leave my father. The two years that followed were a terrifying roller coaster for both ten year old me and my seven year old brother. My father stalked my mother, brother, and I, frequently showing up at our home late at night. On one evening, he broke down the door and threw my mother threw a glass table while my brother and I watched. He pushed me and my brother to the floor while laughing at our weakness. Similar to Murden McClure, I have been angry for years at my helplessness. That I could do nothing to stop a six foot four man from hurting my family.

After restraining orders, secretive moves, and an unlisted phone number, we began to piece our lives back together, but then my brother and I faced attending a public school where I found makeup, cut hair/pants on girls, cursing, television, computers, and the list went on and on. When I search for a word to describe my life between ten and twelve, I come back to trauma. Everything was new and intimidating, and the fear of my father still lurked in every corner. I offer gratitude to Mrs. Puckett, my sixth grade language arts teacher, for re-teaching me the glory of reading and forcing me to write at least a page a day in my classroom journal. I don’t think she ever really understood my hesitancy, but she did understand my joy.

But I grew, and now with time and experience, I can appreciate these things. It’s going to make a heck of a book if I can ever gather the courage to tell the whole story. (More than likely it will be a fictionalized rendition.)