Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – Cheryl Williams

February 10, 2007

A Dusty Garage: The Perfect Escape  

Cheryl Williams

At the age of eight, I was sitting in our dusty garage listening to Billie Holiday, Judy Garland, and Barbra Striesand.  It was my escape.  Sometimes I escaped by just going into my room and covering my ears, but that got to be tiring for a little girl who had much rather be having fun. 

So one day, during one of my parents' drunken arguments, I ventured out into the garage.  I could still hear them, but at least I wasn't right inside of the house with them.  It seemed to ease the anxiety just a bit.  While out in the garage, I stumbled upon an old record player, and curiosity got the best of me.  I found some old 76 vinyl discs that belonged to my parents and I put one on.  Immediately the sounds of the arguing were drowned out by the sweet melodic strains of Patti Page.  I had no idea who Patti Page was, but I knew that she sounded much better than what was going on inside of the house.

From that day forward, this became my escape.  Soon it became more than an escape.  Listening to music became my favorite thing to do.  One day, I went to the mailbox to get the mail for my parents.  One of the items was an offer from Columbia House to join their record club.  My heart pounded with excitement, but I knew better than to ask my parents.  Money was tight, and I knew they would say no.  But the first few words on the offer caught my eye.  "Three free albums" just to join the club. 

So I decided that I would join the club, and put my parent's name on the order form so it would look as if they ordered it.  This was hard because I wasn't very good yet at cursive writing, and it required a signature.  So I found something with my mother's handwriting on it and did a perfect forgery, that is for an eight year old.

Every single day I would get home from school and race to the mailbox in anticipation.  I knew I had to get the mail before my parents did or they would simply write "return to sender" on the package.  Days passed and there was no package.  All kinds of thoughts passed through my mind.  I figured that they must have recognized my childlike handwriting and figured out what I had done.  And then, just when I was about to totally give up hope, I walked up to the mailbox, and right there, attached to the top of the box, was a package from Columbia House. 

My heart was pounding so hard in my chest, and I headed straight to the garage with my treasure, looking for the perfect hiding spot.  I finally found the perfect spot...underneath some old albums that belonged to my parents.  But before putting them away, I looked at each one of them carefully to see what I had gotten.  When I had ordered them, I really had no idea who I was ordering.  One was Judy Garland, but I don't remember the name of the album.  The other one was Billie Holiday, and I don't remember the name of it.  But the Barbra Striesand album was actually the soundtrack to the Broadway musical "Funny Girl".

From that day on, every day I would go out into the garage and play the albums.  My favorite album was "Funny Girl", and it didn't take long before I had memorized all of the words to all of the songs on the album.  For those moments I was transported into another time, and I became Barbra Striesand singing her heart out on Broadway.  I leaned to mimic her, and act the part.  And I came to a realization that I was a really good singer. 

One day my mother heard me singing and she just stood there with her mouth open as she listened to her little girl belt out Broadway show tunes.  Before long, she was making me sing for company, sing at parties, sing at church.  I didn't mind singing for people, even though I was a bit shy.  When I was singing, I was the happiest.  And I decided that I wanted to be a singer when I grew up.

When I was eleven, things changed.  I still loved to sing, but I was no longer able to always escape the dysfunctions of my house by going into the garage and singing. Sometimes I was included in what was going on in my house.  My father started sexually abusing me.  I could not escape into my music when this was going on, so I would travel to the beach in my mind as a way of getting away from the harsh reality.

And something else happened too.  Soon after the abuse started, I stopped singing for people.  I started believing that I was ugly.  I started believing that I had no talent.  I started believing that something was wrong with me.  And I began to eat to squash my pain and loneliness.  This only resulted in gaining weight which added to my already low self-esteem.  So rather than sing, I began to write poetry. 

I wrote about my feelings, and how I wished things could be.   I rarely shared what I wrote, because I figured people would laugh at me.  I was filled with shame and  my confidence in myself was so low.    I became a sad and lonely little girl.  I would still sing when nobody was around to hear me.  And I would write my heart out in every empty notebook I could find.  And this continued until I left home at the age of eighteen...just as the abuse continued.

Now, here I am at forty-nine years old.  I still sing, but have started singing for others.  No, I'm not in the limelight.  But I have sang goodnight songs to children who were child abuse victims and watched them fall asleep with a smile on their faces rather than a look of fear.  I sing at church, and have also written some songs.  I still write, and I always write with the hope that my words will touch and inspire others toward change...toward feeling better about themselves.

I often think back to that little girl in that dusty garage singing her heart out, and I have a great affection and love for her.  She is still a huge part of who I am today, and I often wonder where she would be today had it not been for that old record player and the Columbia House record club, for these were the means of her escape out of something ugly into something very beautiful.

Cheryl Williams

Politicalgirl04@aol.com