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 feeling confused. I didn’t know where I was. For a few seconds I was convinced I was lost at sea. I sat up and stretched the sleep out of me and realized the thunderclaps were the booms and backfires of the trucks coming through the Holland Tunnel a block away. Rain clouds hadn’t turned the sky grey, it was the plumes of smoke pouring out of the giant engines as they drove past. I wasn’t in the middle of the ocean watching a storm batter the coast, I just a vivid dream which unknowingly would portend the dangerous years to come.

— A foreign land —

Gazing out the window, nothing was familiar, just skyscrapers emerging from an expanse of pavement. I didn’t see fields to lie in, trees to sit under, flowers to gather, shells to discover, or waves to admire. New York City seemed like another planet that arose all at once: towering, impressive in its immensity, and utterly foreign. From my bedroom windows, two tall, pillar-like buildings dominated the skyline. I stared at these vertical structures for a few minutes, wondering why they were so much taller than the rest, then shook off musings, found something to wear, and ventured out to explore my new home. My father was asleep and snoring loudly.

In the early 1960s, Canal Streets was zoned commercial. My father rented the loft after leaving the JazzLoft. He nailed cheap masonite flooring over the original wood flooring that had rotted from all the drops of machine oil that had spilled when it a sewing factory. So many discarded sewing needles were stuck in the grooves. He framed and finished walls, ran electric wires, plumbed a sink, and installed a shower. When the housing authority discovered he was residing illegally, squatter rights laws protected him from eviction until zoning laws changed. Many once-illegal residences became legal and 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 at the south end was the bedroom for both of us.

I began with the office. Along the wall, parallel to the front door, was a long desk with a built-in lightbox for looking at slides and negatives. Opposite the desk floor to ceiling was music wit his 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’re for projecting films. The square was for the projector and the circle for the projectionist to see. The back wall of the studio had two large rolls of paper, one white and one black, about twelve feet wide, that were hung up by the ceiling about fifteen feet high. They were used as backdrops for photo shoots and the white roll doubled as a movie screen.

In the middle of the office, taking up almost all the floor space was a giant machine, about three feet wide by five long and three feet tall. Its surface was covered with spools and wheels with rows of levers, knobs, and switches. It reminded me of something from Star Wars. I was curious, but didn’t dare touch it, examining for several minutes in hopes that I could devise what it was for. My father explained it was for editing film.

A narrow hallway ran alongside the office to the living area beginning at the front door. The hallway included the “kitchen” of a two-burner propane stove, a toaster oven, a blender, and a small refrigerator, and a shelf for pantry items. Next to it was a small bathroom with a tiny shower, a toilet, and an overflowing litter box. My father had an immense orange cat, Ambrose, who he’d adopted Ambrose years before and had never been neutered because he didn’t “have the heart to do it.” Ambrose had plenty of time to leave his mark. I covered my nose to use the bathroom. The smell was so potent, but I eventually got used to it and couldn’t smell it anymore.

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 from cat pee, cigar ash, and other substances I couldn’t identify. There was a large coffee table that served as the dining table with a full-sized cast iron frying pan, about twelve inches in diameter, filled with ash and mashed-down cigar butts in the middle.

The white studio floor was marked with drops and smears 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 stages, 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. Some of the brushes seemed homemade. I examined them closer and saw they were made from human hair tightly tied to a wooden dowel. I remembered my father saying he wanted my discarded hair after a haircut to make paintbrushes, but it was creepy that he actually did it. Even creepier were the jars. I recoiled back in horror unable to comprehend what I was seeing. At first glance, I thought they contained human fingers. “Was my father a serial killer?” I gasped. I looked a little closer and realized the “fingers” had screws at the end. I scanned the room. Over by the stove, one was screwed into the wall. They were just plastic hooks molded into the shape of human middle fingers. I couldn’t understand why he put them in the jars unless he wanted people to think they were real. I felt like I had entered a bizarre fairy tale.

On the walls were various paintings pinned up, some gargoyle faces, various sayings written directly on the wall, several crude pornographic cartoons, and numerous illustrations of a symbol with circles painted in different colors with connecting bars. I was drawn to them, not understanding what they were, butI enjoyed the colors. There were so many of them they must be important. My father said they were the Tree of Life from the Qabala.

— jekyll and hyde —

I guessed it was mid-morning when my stomach began to rumble. My father was still snoring so I looked for something to eat, eventually settling on an open box of stale cereal and some milk that was slightly sour. I found a spoon and a small bowl, both of which had to be washed. After I ate, I was bored. I tried to read a book, but it was hard for me to focus. Hours passed waiting for my father to awaken. In the early afternoon, he stumbled down from his loft bed and walked to the bathroom to “piss.” I was excited to finally have someone to interact with after hours of silence, but he ignored me and bark brusquely to make him coffee. I was stunned; he had never spoken to me that way before.

I tried to make coffee, but I had never used a coffee pot before. My father put on jazz music very loud and lit a cigar. He moved a director’s chair into the middle of his studio, sat down and began to stare at one of the paintings he had worked on the night before. I attempted conversation, but whenever I spoke, he held up his hand for me to be silent and continued to stare at the wall. I returned to trying to figure out how to make the coffee, eventually succeeding in producing some type of brown, hot liquid which may, or may not, be called coffee.

It had now been several hours since my bowl of stale cereal and my stomach began to growl again. My father was still ignoring me, so I scrounged around in the fridge again, pulling out some white bread (also stale), sliced baloney and yellow mustard for a sandwich. I would have preferred something healthier, my mother would not have approved, but it’s what was available. My father saw me preparing the sandwich and demanded one as well.

After about an hour of sitting in silence, his cigar had been 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, went into his office, put on another jazz record and proceeded to make some phone calls.

I was bewildered. Was the comic book his feeble attempt to provide me with something to do? He still had not spoken directly to me. I kept hoping it was a temporary mood. I flipped through a few pages, then closed it. I couldn’t concentrate. I felt restless, time felt like it wasn’t moving. I marked time by the lowering of the sun and the shifting traffic patterns. For hours my father remained in his office, only emerging to use the bathroom or refill his glass of rum. I could hear him on the phone or typing on a typewriter muffled by the music.

Waiting was a trigger for me. So much of my life had been dictated and controlled by others: doctors, parents, and lawyers, that I felt I was always waiting on the sidelines while others got to live. Another big trigger was being ignored. As a child I was rarely spoken to directly by those who had the greatest influence on my life: doctors, judges, and now my father. I felt I was being punished.

My mind spun through everything that had transpired, connecting the dots of my current situation. Months before in Haiti, my father had convinced me that living with Tante would be better for everyone. The life I was “agreeing” to was with Tante in the same state as my mother, not alone with my father in the middle of a big city. It wasn’t what I wanted, but I took responsibility as if it was something I had control over. It would be years before I could accept that I had been a victim.

I struggled to process how radically different my world had become in less than 24 hours. Then it hit me like a punch in the stomach: I had been kidnapped again. My father was barely recognizable so it felt like I had been abducted by a random stranger. He had achieved his objective of possessing me, so he no longer needed to pretend to be the “perfect father” anymore. I had adored him. His transgressions from years past remained safely locked away in my subconscious. I was forced to consider that the father I knew was not returning. I was not witnessing an alter ego trapped in my father’s psyche like in the classic cautionary tale, The Strange Case of Jekyll and Hyde, it was his true personality.

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

It would be years before I could fully unpack the situation I found myself in, but it shifted my relationship with my father. That first day was so defining, I will refer to him as MF from this point forward. He would always be biologically my father, but he was also quite the motherfucker…

— neighborhood —

The sun was low and getting red when he strolled out from his office to announce that we were going out. We needed to walk to the grocery store, which was about seven to eight blocks from the loft. I had no idea why I needed to go, but getting out of the loft was a break in the monotony. I put on my shoes and we walked to the door.

To get in or out of the loft required several steps. Before unlocking anything, MF would carefully look through a fisheye peephole in the middle of the door to confirm that no one was outside. I was too short to see through it. 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. MF unlocked the top two locks and moved back the rod to rest against the wall. Addressing me directly for the first time, MF explained that the rod prevented someone from breaking the door down. I was shocked to imagine this scenario. I thought about how I had just left a town where locks were rarely even used. With a tug and a creak, the door was opened.

We exited the loft and the door was locked three times; the third lock could only be locked and unlocked from the outside. There was another loft directly opposite ours. A narrow staircase wound around the small elevator shaft in the center of the building. MF peered into a crack on the side of the shaft to see where the elevator was. The elevator etiquette was as follows: you only rang the bell if you were on the bottom floor. Leaving your loft, you were expected to go get it. If the elevator was at the bottom of the building, you just walked down the six flights. With a loud impatient scoff, MF left to get the elevator on a nearby floor. I waited in front of the loft door. The landing on was narrow, about four by ten feet with a large window overlooking Canal Street. The window was big with no screens or bars to protect someone from falling out. It made me nervous. It. I considered even the most dramatic possibilities. Sometimes during the summer months, the window was left wide open, so I’d stand as far away as I could. I’d feel like I could be sucked out by the breeze. Years later my mother stepped back from the same window because she was afraid MF might push her…

I heard clanging noises in the elevator shaft and then silence. Soon after, the elevator doors opened and MF stood there. The elevator was about six by six feet square. He shut the main elevator door with considerable force until it clicked into place, and then the metal gate. It looked like parallel vertical rods when collapsed, but when stretched to the width of the elevator, expanded into diamond shapes. Once everything was shut, MF moved the brass lever to the left and the elevator began to rumble and descend. I watched the floors pass by. When we got to the bottom, you had to to be careful to not end up in the basement because sometimes it got stuck. That happened to me years later when I was alone. There was a large, barrel trash can in the elevator at the time, so after trying to get the elevator to move, and numerous shouts for assistance, I rescued myself by climbing on top of the trash can, exiting through the top, and manually opening the doors to the first floor.

This time the elevator operated without issue as we descended. MF moved the lever to the right, then the left, until the elevator was level with the first floor, released the lever and the elevator jolted to a full stop. Then he unhooked the gate, collapsed it back, and tugged open the outer door. We exited into the dark lobby, only lit by a dim bulb, and out of the building. I took in my surroundings and was struck by how noisy it was. Standing on the corner with horns blaring as cars jockeyed for position crowding the streets, I wished I was in the jungles of Haiti or on the rocks in Maine instead of the cement landscape I was now living in.

Our building was 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 and Church Street ran North to South. If you looked down Church Street, you’d see the World Trade Center about a mile away. West of our building across Church Street was the local post office, past that was the entrance to the Holland Tunnel with its constant din of trucks, and west of the tunnel was West Broadway which marked the beginning of the SoHo art district. Down our block to the east, towards Broadway, were the neighborhoods of Chinatown and Little Italy.

Our block had industrial shops pressed next to each other and crammed full of merchandise as well as mini-stores were run by Asians selling knock-off designer jewelry, handbags, or sunglasses, some so small you couldn’t step inside. The larger shops sold a range of eclectic raw materials such as slabs of foam rubber, PVC piping in various sizes, tubing, wires, and electronics. In the window of a plexiglass shop, were displayed a range of plastic shapes and colors available, some translucent a caught the sunlight at certain times of day, displaying a dazzling array of colors.

The surrounding streets were crammed with trucks, taxis, bicycles, motorcycles, and cars. Steady plumes of black dust from the trucks polluted the air. Everything had a thick sludge coating it. Public trash cans were few and far between and were always overflowing so garbage was scattered which clogged the storm drains. More litter was piled in the corners of the buildings.

Directly across from our building on Canal Street was Crazy Eddie’s, a discount electronics store. Their advertisements ran on constant rotation on television and featured an overweight, red-faced man whom, I could only assume, was “Eddie” who would scream that his “Prices are insane!” The commercials aired so frequently that I thought they must be a huge company, but it was just a small, poorly lit shop crammed floor to ceiling with various electronics, parts, and cables. Lights blinked, glowed, and flickered on all four walls like an alien ship. The store’s founder Eddie Antar, was until convicted of fraud and the store eventually closed down.

Along the length of our block, there were tables selling bootleg music cassettes and videotapes. The few police officers who patrolled the area simply strolled past them, or browsed their wares. In the middle of our block was a huge, eight-floor art store called Pearl Paint. Next door was Canal Jean Company, a discount clothing store with large bins of clothes set up in front. 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 became the hip place to get dirt-cheap clothes, especially with the financially challenged yet fashion-conscious, New Yorkers who would be responsible for many fashion trends in the 1980s.

On the corner of the next block to the east was an iconic restaurant known as Dave’s Luncheonette which was where the fountain drink called an “egg cream” was invented. An egg cream ironically does not contain either eggs or cream. Instead, it is made by mixing soda, milk, and flavored syrup; it had an unusual taste.

When I was a young man, no bigger than this

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

— Lou Reed, Egg Cream, Blue In The Face, 1995

Standing in front of our building, I waited for MF 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 and wild as he spoke with his hands gesturing for emphasis. I was truly terrified, which was exactly what he wanted.

I looked around for evidence of the potential abductions that MF had spoken of. He had such conviction that I truly expected to see one happen at any moment, but I never did. Given all the danger I had faced so far, his message resonated with me. It seemed plausible what he was saying was true. I took MF’s words to heart, so much so that for years I followed his advice, even in places where it wasn’t necessary. Friends would tell me how they’d said hello to me or waved when passing in a car and I would completely ignore them. It wasn’t conscious. It took me years to undo this habit.

Once MF was comfortable that his message had been properly delivered, he turned west and began walking toward Church Street. I followed. We waited for one of the few working walk signals to change. There were no traffic police to ensure one could safely cross the street, so pedestrians were often forced to boldly weave in between traffic to get across. As soon as the symbol switched, MF grabbed my hand and pulled me quickly across. Then he turned and pointed back towards our building. On the side was a painted mural of a Johnny Walker Red scotch bottle. MF’s loft on the sixth floor was right in “the neck” of the bottle, he told me with a snicker. As long as that mural remained on the side of our building, that was how he described where we lived to everyone, and always with amusement. I was too young to get the joke.

I was reminded me of the hospital with its overload of stimuli — 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. New York City, by contrast, was chaos united by location, but otherwise totally disparate. It was the randomness of the stimuli that made it so intense for me. I had no idea what I needed to prepare for it or how to protect myself.

As we walked to the grocery store, I tried to record in my mind everything I saw so that I could mentally review it later when I was bored in the loft. The walk seemed long to my little legs but I did my best to keep up. I followed MF block by block, up West Broadway where the majority of small art galleries were located featuring the trending art style of the time: Pop Art. The gallery windows displayed pieces by trendy artists like Andy Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein, among others.

The Grand Union was located one block south of Washington Square. The surrounding neighborhood was part of the extended “campus” of New York University that was frequented by college students. The exterior of the store was run down with a big overgrown empty lot next to it that was surrounded by a chainlink fence and scattered with trash. Homeless people were tucked away in corners of buildings or pushing their shopping carts overloaded with their life’s belongings. They made me nervous with their scattered energy and rants about injustices, so I stayed close to MF when we walked by.

Inside the grocery store, MF shopped almost exclusively for convenience foods such as Hamburger Helper, canned soups, yogurt, toaster muffins, or waffles. Except for the occasional banana, fresh fruits or vegetables were not on the list. MF found that eating interfered with his “work,” so his food choices were based on what was easy and quick. He never asked what I liked or wanted. He purchased what could be easily carried in two balanced shopping bags and then we walked home. I trailed behind him a few feet, watching his hunched silhouette trodding ahead of me, with a bag in each hand. Every minute or so he would turn to see if I was still there behind him. Otherwise, he simply walked on ahead, saying nothing.

Arriving back to Canal Street, MF fumbled for his keys. It was a little bit of a struggle because he didn’t want to put the bags down on the dirty sidewalk. Once the door was opened, came the task of locating the elevator. Every so often we had a rare stroke of luck and the elevator was already on the ground floor, but most of the time it was not. Then, there was a series of bell ringing, peering into the elevator shaft to determine progress, and waiting, lots of waiting. Sometimes, a tenant who lived on the floor where the elevator had last been used, never responded to the buzzer. This could be because they were taking a nap or just didn’t hear the bell. When this happened, it was considered a big violation of the etiquette. If you had the elevator on your floor, especially if you were the last one to use it, and didn’t answer the call, it was treated as an extreme oversight. Whenever that person was encountered afterward, there would be a grand exchange of loud words and threatening hand gestures for several weeks.

Back in the loft, MF set the bags down and took a seat, leaving me to unpack the purchases and put them away. Once the task was complete, MF rose from the couch, took a large can of soup off the shelf, grabbed the can opener, and set them both in front of me. He gestured at me like a director in a movie before sitting back down. In that moment, I understood my days of being cared for were long gone, good thing I was a fast learner. Tante and I had cooked together, but I had never been in charge of preparing a meal before. It was just soup and toast, but at eleven-years-old it was still daunting. I opened the can, tentatively chose a saucepan, rinsing it off, poured in the soup, placed the pan on the stove, and then stopped. It was a propane stove that had to be manually lit. I had never used a gas stove before and did not know how to light one. MF remained comfortably on the couch, watching the news and ignoring me once again. I had no choice but to ask for help. He grumbled at the interruption, responding with grunts and glares. I softly repeated my request. Just like that morning, he held up his hand to silence my questions, so I stood there immobile, unable to proceed. Then, as if he had been waiting for me to solve the issue on my own and finally recognized I could not, he rose from his seat. Then he 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 which was both dazzling and intimidating at the same time. Then he refreshed his drink and went back to his seat. With the burner lit, I warmed the soup, toasted and buttered the bread, and then served us both. I missed the camaraderie (and flavors) of Tante’s kitchen where we had made so many tasty memories together. After dinner, I washed the dishes, knowing this was my role now.

When I was done cleaning up, MF indicated for me to have a seat. Once he had my full attention, he began to explain in detail about what a crime-ridden world existed outside, one that he alone could protect me from. Where we lived was not 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 would not 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 MF 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 who was running around our building. The man moved quickly, stopping to look around, and it appeared that he had something in his hand which could have 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, MF reached over, pulled me back in and shut the window.

Soon everything outside calmed down. The suspect had either been caught or escaped; I did not know which. Before I could ask, MF resumed his speech. I had to trust him explicitly, he said forcefully, because he was the only one who could protect me. He went on and on. I started to feel sleepy and told MF I wanted to go to bed. He nodded. I paused, expecting instructions, but none came. A few more seconds of silence passed before I understood that there was no bedtime fanfare. I left to brush my teeth, wash my face, and said good night. He responded with a grunt and began setting up materials in the studio to paint.

I went to bed, but it was hard to sleep. MF had turned the music up full volume, it was so loud that it was as if a full band was playing right next to my bed. Then he turned on the overhead flood lights in the studio which were so bright they lit up my entire bed. He’d paint until the early hours of the morning. This went on every night. It would take me several hours to fall sleep. I’d find myself dozing and waking up over and over. Sometimes I’d just lie in my bed staring out my window at the two, tall rectangular buildings which always had some lights on, no matter how late it was. “Go to bed!” I would say and then try to take my own advice. Those buildings became my nighttime companion on all my restless nights. I later learned that they were collectively known as the World Trade Center.

I wasn’t the only one MF bothered. He had a contentious relationship with his upstairs neighbor, a Ukrainian woman named Nina who was also an artist. MF always referred to her as a lesbian, as if that was some sort of crime, because she painted beautiful, oversized paintings of flowers close up such as lilies, irises, or orchids. MF would day that she was sexually repressed and subconsciously painting vaginas over and over. If Nina was home when he played his music loud until four or five in the morning, there would be drama. She would first stomp on the floor. MF would ignore her. Then she would come downstairs and bang on the door. MF would continue to ignore her. Then Nina would have no other option but to call the police. When the cops arrived, MF would answer the door, be civil to the officers, and turn the music down. The police would leave, thinking their job was done. MF would wait ten to fifteen minutes before turning the music up even louder. It was a fruitless cycle that he always blamed as Nina’s uptightness versus his own behavior.

— BOREDOM & LONELINESS —

I fell into a routine; my biggest challenge was finding ways to break up the time. My days always began alone. Daytimes were the hardest; MF barely communicated with me until the evening. I would wake mid-morning, get dressed, and eat breakfast on my own. I’d draw or read while MF slept, only quiet activities so as not to wake him. He was grouchy in the mornings. Once he awoke, I’d tend to his demands for coffee, sustenance, and clean up afterward. After he finished, he’d go into his office to hustle for money, mostly calling people to try to drum up interest in projects he had developed or to get himself invited to important events. He would spend the day in his office and leave me completely alone.

While MF “worked” he’d let me watch television; that first year I watched a lot of television. In the late afternoon, when school was out, there was some educational programming on public television which kept me learning… somewhat. My mind was eager to expand and acquire knowledge, but it was hard to keep up academically without peer support, teacher guidance, or a curriculum. During the first year, in addition to my copious television viewing, I read all of Shakespeare, the collection of Sherlock Homes stories, and many others, anything to pass time.

MF exerted complete control, monitoring my every activity, even when it seemed like he was ignoring me. He dictated what books I read, music I listened to, television I watched, and what opinions I could have. It was suffocating. Any activity he didn’t choose was not allowed such as playing the flute. I’d played for four years and wanted to continue, but MF dismissed the idea because my mother had played flute. He got me a second-hand trumpet that I didn’t know how to play and no lessons. I didn’t take to it. After much pushing, he abandoned the idea.

Being stuck in the loft nearly 24/7 without peers to interact with, a school to attend, and no one willing to intervene, plunged me into a deep depression. Days turned into weeks with MF as my only company. I stayed in the loft exclusively except for when went the store. Day and night within those walls. I felt like a prisoner in solitary confinement who was granted less than an hour a day outside of her cell. The loneliness was crushing at times. I intensely missed being around kids my own age. I longed for a friend or confidant, so much that I would have even welcomed bullies if it meant I didn’t have to be alone all the time. I kept searching for a solution to have some peer contact, but all of MF’s friends were childless bachelors. I couldn’t leave the loft on my own and school was not an option without MF’s permission. He had made it clear it would not be given. The loneliness was the hardest part for me. I had been isolated and alone in the hospital, but that was different. There I had plenty of distractions with nurses and doctors. I even made friends with the other patients. The friendships were fleeting, but there was still some contact. In the loft, I had no one.

I got an idea, an inspiration really — what if MF adopted a girl my age? I could have a sister, a friend, a confidant, and a playmate. I thought it was perfect. With the utmost confidence, I suggested to MF. He shot it down. At eleven-years-old, my idea seemed perfect, but of course, it was completely impractical. MF would not have qualified to adopt and there was no space for another child in the loft. Even if one had come to live with us, there was no guarantee that she’d become my friend. I didn’t think of any of these things. I wasn’t being logical, it was an emotional plea for any form of peer interaction.

I begged MF for weeks about adopting a sister for me. I tried presenting reason after reason, arguing that the adoptee could help with the housework as well as keep me company. I told him I would give up space in my bed area for another bed. We could make it work, I pleaded. Looking back at this now, I feel sad because I remember the intensity of my desperation followed by dashed hopes when MF dismissed me. I had no choice but to accept that my idea would never come to pass. I would not be getting a sister.

In effect, I existed in a state of radio silence. All forms of communication were under MF’s control. To make a long-distance call, you’d enter a special code which only MF had. I had to have his permission to call, which he never gave me. MF was so suspicious, in constant fear of losing control, that even if I had someone to call, MF would be monitoring every word. Sending a letter was also prohibitive. I could write one, but I needed the envelope, address, and stamp from MF, all of which were not forthcoming.

Not being able to communicate with anyone was torture. I felt like a part of me had been amputated. I had no outlet for my feelings aside from my diary. I even censored my creativity because MF was always analyzing everything I did for seeds of discontent. I learned to code my creative expressions to keep their true meanings hidden. Only in my diary, which I hid well, could I fully pour my heart out. On many a night, my tears stained its pages.

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

— isolation & control —

From that first day in the loft, MF treated me like his prize possession versus his child. He kept me locked away for years. Some of the locks were physical, but most were psychological. While he did not molest me again, I experienced abuse in other forms. As a full-fledged narcissist, he never cared how his actions affected me. In many ways, MF fit the profile of a sociopath: devoid of empathy, mentally unstable, and following the classic playbook to groom me into submission. Daily he’d drill into me his message about how bringing me to NYC and keeping me out of school was to protect me. The more time I spent with MF, the more I realized how deeply flawed he really was.

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

MF knew I was unhappy that I was forced to leave Boothbay, but firmly asserted that he had done what was necessary and I should be grateful to him. He didn’t recognize how disruptive the move had been for me or consider how much I had left behind. In his twisted mind, he was the hero, a narrative he perpetuated throughout my life. Not only had he rescued me from my “wicked” mother, but living in NYC was a wonderful opportunity. MF completely ignored what I really needed or wanted. I wasn’t looking for a break to advance my career, I was just a kid who had been ripped out of all that I knew. So New York City was both a dangerous that he needed to safeguard me from, but also a gold mine of opportunity. Whatever the spin was, the intention was to keep me compliant. It didn’t have to make sense — I just had to accept it.

I want everything back, the way it was. But there is no point to it, this wanting.

— Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale

Since he had done this great deed by bringing me to NYC, naturally MF surmised that I should repay him for his generosity. To “earn my keep” so to speak, and express my gratitude, I was to help around the home. He willingly made his child, his only child, into his indentured servant. I was not in New York because he couldn’t bear to be without me, it was the easiest way to control me and keep me away from my mother. Obtaining a designated cook/maidservant in the process was just the bonus prize. MF’s treatment was similar to human traffickers who charge exorbitant fees for providing illegal passage to people from a foreign country. Once the smuggled passengers arrive, they must work for the traffickers to pay back the costs of their voyage. No matter how long they work, their debt keeps accruing so it never gets paid down, becoming slaves, in all senses of the word, all the while, the smugglers claim they were helping them.

When MF impulsively took me from Maine to NYC, he hadn’t thought through the responsibility of caring for a dependent child 24/7. I was cramping his style. He had gotten used to living his life 100% on his own terms, keeping his own schedule — sleeping and waking whenever he wanted, going wherever the urge took him, and partying nearly every night of the week. My presence didn’t disrupt as much as one would expect; he still kept his own hours, drank and smoked as he pleased, while shifting the tasks of food preparation and cleaning to me, but he didn’t know what to do with me when he wanted to go out.
Often he’d bring me with him, but it was impractical to have a young, handicapped child tag along all the time. I’d get tired easily and complain loudly to go home. Plus not all the places welcomed children. MF would never spend money for my care, so when he couldn’t take me with him, he used the third lock, the one on the outside of the door, to securely lock me inside “for my safekeeping” he told me. I was old enough, he surmised, to leave me alone for a few hours. I was effectively a prisoner in my own home. If there ever had been an emergency requiring the evacuation of the building, I would not have been able to open the door to exit. The only option would be the fire escape, but on the sixth floor and handicapped, I was effectively trapped.

One day when I was alone in the loft, the phone rang. I felt like I should answer in case MF was calling me. I picked up the phone. There was a male voice on the other end but it wasn’t MF. I was nervous talking to him. “Hello,” he said, and I replied “Hello” in return. Then I said “Are you calling for my father David Young? He’s not here right now.” I wanted to get off the phone quickly in case I had made a mistake by answering. The man said, “I am a friend of your father.” I felt more relaxed. “Can I give him a message?” I said, trying to be helpful. He didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “How old are you?” I told him I was eleven. I thought it was odd he was asking me questions, but I assumed that he was just being friendly. Then he said, “What do you like doing for fun?” I started to feel nervous again. I answered, “I like to draw.” He said “That’s nice…” and then paused. A feeling of wanting to get off the phone rushed over me. Then he asked, “What are you wearing?” That seemed a really odd question. Why did he want to know that? Being an obedient child that I was, I answered “Just a T-shirt and shorts.” To which he followed with “What color is your underwear?” Suddenly I felt flushed and my heart raced. I started to answer with a stammer and then hung up the phone.

When MF returned, I told him about the call. His response was that I should not have answered the phone, as if it was my fault. I felt ashamed. I had only answered the phone because I had been alone, but MF presented everything as someone else’s fault. Instead of seeing me as a victim of a perverted act, I was to blame. The call made me feel vulnerable and therefore dependent on MF to keep me safe. I never answered the phone again unless MF told me to.

After that call, whenever MF went to leave the loft without me, I protested heavily; I was too nervous to be alone. I bothered and begged him so much to take me with him. He said he would ask our neighbors to watch me next time. The neighbors were a very nice, young couple from England, Gavin and Anna, who had a newborn baby boy. They were new to the building so didn’t know MF’s personality. When he asked a favor to watch me for a few hours, they quickly said yes. When I went to their loft, I marveled at how much nicer it was.

They were so friendly, offering me tea and cookies while making conversation. At first I was too shy to say much, but little by little, as the hours passed and they kept engaging me in conversation, I gradually overcame my natural 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 MF careful not to describe the full depth of how truly unhappy I was. That might make things worse. I told them about how lonely I was without friends, hoping that maybe they my nice could convince MF to let me spend some time with other 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 MF got back that evening to pick me up, they asked to talk to him. Their tone was warm and friendly, not confrontational at all. MF gestured for me to go to the loft. He opened the door and 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 lift 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. They only spoke for a few minutes when I heard MF bellow loudly “Don’t tell me how to raise my daughter!” A slew of insults and expletives followed. Once I heard him approach our door, I scurried down the hallway to the living room. I didn’t want him to know that I had 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 then retreated to my bed, avoiding him for the rest of the night. I didn’t understand what MF had done until the next day when the police knocked on our door and I overheard the officer telling MF that he had to turn the neighbor’s power back on. MF went over to the same box and pushed the switches back the other way.

A gentle person is like a circle. An angry person has sharp corners.

— Eliza Alys Young, 1979

I later learned what had happened. The fuse box for the entire floor, our loft and theirs, was that metal box by our refrigerator. When the building became residential, the breakers were never separated into individual lofts. What MF had cut all the electricity to their loft to punish them for speaking on my behalf. When I realized this, I felt horrible, knowing that they had suffered simply because they had tried to help me. I had underestimated the lengths that MF would go to. He was mentally unstable, filled with paranoia, and believed the world should revolve around him, often talking about enemies around him who wished him ill, my mother being the biggest threat.

MF kept me obedient through isolation and control. He took me from friends and family, kept me out of school so I couldn’t to make friends, and controlled every aspect of my life. He also took steps to ensure that there was no one to turn to. After the incident with Gavin and Anna, I never again dared to ask for help and MF ensured I’d never have the opportunity. All the adults I’d encounter from that point on were close friends of MF who I couldn’t talk to for fear it would get back to him. Even when I met people not associated with MF, I didn’t consider them safe to talk to because he was always nearby. Besides, if I had a chance to say something, what would it be? Anything I might tell them, MF would know how to spin it so that he came out the hero. “Why do you keep your daughter out of school?” and he would reply that the zoned school is too dangerous for a handicapped child. “Why don’t you let your daughter see her mother?” and he’d say that my mother had tried to harm me. “Why doesn’t your daughter spend time with kids her own age?” and he’d say that most kids were bullies so he shielded me from them. “Why did you bring her to an adult event?” to which he’d respond that he didn’t trust anyone else to care for me… and so on. I knew how it would go, so I never bothered to try.

At one point, my mother was so worried about my situation that she decided to take action. She knew what MF was capable of and was terrified how it might impact me, especially about the possibility of sexual abuse. She reported her fears to Child Protective Services (CPS) in New York. One day the phone rang. MF was in his office when he answered it. It was CPS following up on my mother’s report. I could tell from his tone that something was up. His voice quickly got aggressive and I heard him say strongly “What is this about? My daughter is fine! Who reported this?” His voice got louder with each word he spoke. I now knew that the call was about me and I was on high alert.

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

MF set the phone down and strode into the living area. He pointed to me to the phone in the living room. “Pick up the phone,” he ordered, “someone needs to speak to you.” He waited until I had lifted the receiver, returned to his office, and listened to the call. 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. Meanwhile, MF was listening to everything, but I don’t think the caller was aware. The lady asked me several questions, starting with my full name, age, names and location of my parents. 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. I was truly unhappy, but how could I tell her that? MF was listening. Even if I told her everything and that instigated action on the part of CPS, I knew at my core, that MF would just hide me away somewhere and my life would be worse. 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 answered yes again. Lastly, she asked if MF was “touching me” in any way that made me uncomfortable. This was the only question that I could answer truthfully, because my memories of past molestation were safely tucked away. He hadn’t violated me in that way since so I easily answered “no.” With that, the call concluded and the lady hung up. No one ever came to the loft or talked with me in private. CPS told my mother there was “no evidence of abuse.” That call gave me some initial hope of possible help, but as the days then weeks passed without any action, I realized nothing was going to change. No one was going to rescue me.

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

— Danger & Despair —

For years, my father’s singular goal had been to take me away from my mother. He had used all the means at his disposal to achieve it. Yet now he acted as if he didn’t want me around. During that first year, MF was sullen, irascible, and rarely nice. His personality was unpredictable and often explosive. His temper was a minefield; at times it felt like I was living in a war zone. He terrified me by implying potential violence, while never actually escalating to it. The threat was always there, which sometimes could be even more terrifying. I made it my mission to learn his triggers, but there were so many of them. Once he got so angry that he threw a wooden director’s chair across the room with enough force that it splintered into many small pieces. I don’t even remember what I said that set him off.

Another time, MF walked up to me menacingly from across the room and cornered me in the hallway by the refrigerator. He was eating a cup of cherry yogurt. I remember the color specifically, it was sickly pink like Pepto Bismol. Without warning, he grabbed me by the arm so tight that his grip left a bruise in the shape of his fingers for over a week. He screamed close to my face “You look just like your mother!!” as if that was a sin. He yelled so loud it was terrifying. Then he took the yogurt, which was partially eaten, and smashed the cup into my hair, grinding it into my skull. The cup crumpled and the cherry yogurt was stuck in my hair, dripping down the side of my face. The only physical injury was the bruise, but he had totally terrorized me. I didn’t even know what he was angry about until MF told me to never put my hair into a bun because it was a style my mother often wore His bursts of rage were so unexpected and shocking that they’d put me on high alert.

I bore a striking resemblance to my mother. Whenever I was with her in public, I’d hear people say I was a miniature version of her. I used to feel proud of our similarities. but with MF it would make him furious. Daily I tried to please him and avoid his unpredictable moods. I didn’t discuss my mother or do anything associated with her. 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. I kept myself quiet, stayed out of the way to not make things worse.

One day I heard knocking that got louder by the second, vibrating our door as a fist hit it for several seconds. The bracing bar rattled as the door shook from the persistent pounding followed by loud yelling. The rent was past due and if it wasn’t paid, we’d be “kicked out on the street!” MF was always behind on the rent, so I heard those threats at regular intervals during my years in the loft when the rent was late. The first time it happened, however, I didn’t know that 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. I was terrified 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. I worried we’d be homeless. MF made no attempt to reassure me.

MF used our poverty as an effective way to scare me and make me feel dependent on him. He’d constantly remind me of how little we had and what we could not afford. By focusing on our lack of money, he put us in a state of constant crisis which left me afraid my situation could go from bad to worse. When I got older and started babysitting for the neighbors upstairs, MF’d commandeer my earnings, saying he needed the money to keep us off the street.

I didn’t realize at first that we were poor or even know what that meant. I knew MF hated spending money and paid for groceries with paper that he told me were food stamps. With my mother, our life was modest, but I always had what I needed. I wasn’t focused on material things; my playground was outdoors or in my imagination. I easily entertained myself with picking wildflowers, playing in nature, and with my creativity. My mother never pointed out our lack so I didn’t realize it was there, she just focused on the positive. MF wasn’t the least bit embarrassed to admit our poverty or accept any form of handout. Due to his immense talent, working on anything other than his art was beneath him, so a handout was not only welcomed, but expected. In the weeks after my arrival to the loft, we spent hours in the welfare office so MF could increase his benefits, apply for additional benefits due to my handicap, and be excused from working because he had to “care for his daughter.” MF subsidized his life with hand-me-down clothes, attended events for the free food, walked or took the subway to avoid expensive taxis no matter the hour, and never spent extra money outside of an emergency.… unless someone else was footing the bill.

We didn’t have to be poor. MF deliberately chose not to work, preferring to depend on the generosity of his friends and any available social services. He refused to make any sacrifices to improve his economic situation throughout his life, never working a “straight” job. He was always focused scrambling after any opportunity where he could to obtain money easily, and then if he failed to do so, complaining its loss bitterly. When he did get money, whether from a donation, the sale of a painting, or a small job, it was spent on more art supplies or equipment, never on clothes or toys for me… ever. He avoided any expenses related to my care.

During those first years, I comforted myself with the knowledge that once I turned 18, I could legally leave no matter what, but it seemed like a lifetime.

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.