The Dark Room
A Memoir of Triumph
To others who told me, “I was abused too, in different ways, and I’m afraid to stand up and speak up because I feel unworthy.” This memoir is for you.
The Dark Room is about growing up in the 1950s, 60s, and 70s as one of eight children of parents who fled Nazi Germany separately, met in New York in 1943, and re-started their lives as Americans in Seattle. The inherent chaos of a family of ten was magnified by my parents' careers and their strong commitment to civil rights. All eight children were expected to shine in music, dance, sports or some other designated activity. Our family, in any configuration, was a very visible presence, often cited as a model of family closeness, achievement, and community involvement. To the outside world, my mother could have been featured as a Ms. Magazine cover story-beautiful, charismatic, athletic, a professional photographer, and a passionate, public voice for social justice. Her civil rights activism is chronicled in a recently published book: Seattle in Black and White: The Congress of Racial Equality and the Fight for Equal Opportunity.
My parents experiences as Holocaust refugees contributed to an unspoken code: trust only family. Family was everything and must be preserved. All of my siblings have stories to tell. This one is mine: My mother sexually molested me from the age of four until the age of sixteen, a betrayal of the most profound maternal bond. My memoir includes the account of my confrontation with both parents, almost 30 years later.
And yet, The Dark Room is not a a story of hatred, revenge, or bitterness; rather it is, by turns, funny, healing, and inspiring.
Ultimately, it is a testament about the ability to break the cycle of abuse, to thrive and love.
Mother/child incest is perhaps the last taboo in our culture¹s awareness.
Prior to writing The Dark Room, I was an attorney and a law clerk for a justice on the Hawaii Supreme Court. Later I became a television producer, creating award-winning documentaries for the NBC and CBS affiliates in Honolulu. I am a mother to two sons, a grandmother to four grandsons, and a partner to my husband for almost 50 years.
My parents experiences as Holocaust refugees contributed to an unspoken code: trust only family. Family was everything and must be preserved. All of my siblings have stories to tell. This one is mine: My mother sexually molested me from the age of four until the age of sixteen, a betrayal of the most profound maternal bond. My memoir includes the account of my confrontation with both parents, almost 30 years later.
And yet, The Dark Room is not a a story of hatred, revenge, or bitterness; rather it is, by turns, funny, healing, and inspiring.
Ultimately, it is a testament about the ability to break the cycle of abuse, to thrive and love.
Mother/child incest is perhaps the last taboo in our culture¹s awareness.
Prior to writing The Dark Room, I was an attorney and a law clerk for a justice on the Hawaii Supreme Court. Later I became a television producer, creating award-winning documentaries for the NBC and CBS affiliates in Honolulu. I am a mother to two sons, a grandmother to four grandsons, and a partner to my husband for almost 50 years.
Excerpts from The Dark Room
Preparing to visit a nudist colony; age eight
“Where are we going?” I asked between bites.
“A nudist colony,” Mom said matter-of-factly, and then she thrust seven-month-old Charlotte into Dad’s arms and glided into the next room.
“What’s a nudist colony?” Simon, now 5, asked.
“I think it’s a camp for naked people,” Naomi, who was twelve, explained tentatively. My father nodded. Neither of them looked very pleased.
We were used to being naked around each other, and to playing naked with the Miller kids, but we weren’t accustomed to being naked in public. This idea of a whole camp of nudists seemed extreme, even to all of us.
Nevertheless, not long after her announcement we were on our way. The station wagon was loaded with food and a few backpacks of clothes. Dad drove, and Mom sat upfront with Charlotte in her lap. Naomi sat in the front too, squeezed between my parents. Leah, Mia and I sat in the backseat. Danny and Simon sat behind us in the seats that faced backwards.
After a while, Simon twisted around in his seat so that his head was facing forward and posed an interesting question. “If we’re going to a naked camp, why did we have to pack all these clothes?” he wondered.
Making Sandwiches for School Lunches for family; age ten
After dinner, while Naomi washed the dishes, I laid out my materials: a tin cookie sheet, a knife, and a loaf-and-a-half of pre-sliced rye bread from Gai’s Bakery. I spread the slices out across the pan, with extra ones lapping over onto the Formica table, and, when a sandwich required mayonnaise, spread the mayonnaise onto each slice. There were seven of us who needed to have lunches to take on a daily basis—everyone except Mom, Charlotte, and Joey. Each person had special requests or needs that I needed to cater to. Danny got two sandwiches, except on days when he played football; on those days, he got two-and-a-half. Simon usually needed one-and-a-half sandwiches, but on days when he stayed late for tutoring, he received two full ones. Dad took one-and-a-half every day. Each of the girls always got one sandwich, regardless of our afterschool activities. So, there were nine sandwiches on regular days, nine-and-a-half on days when only Danny or Simon stayed late, and ten sandwiches if Simon stayed after school on the same day that Danny played football.
Calculating the number of bread slices was simple compared to the next challenge-making sure that everyone received the correct ingredients. Dad always wanted at least part of his lunch to be a cheese sandwich. Often, he would want one cheese sandwich and one half-sandwich of something else, but sometimes all one-and-a-half sandwiches in his lunch were cheese. Leah and Simon wouldn’t eat cheese sandwiches, so it was my job to find alternatives for them on the days when I made cheese for everyone else. On those days, Simon would get peanut butter and jelly, and Leah—who didn’t like that, either—might get tuna fish. Danny couldn’t stand tuna fish, so he had peanut butter and jelly on days when the rest of us ate tuna. No one besides Danny and Simon liked peanut butter very much, so on some days I would scour the fridge for leftovers and create a combination of roast beef, chicken, or jelly sandwiches for the rest of the family.
Of course, all of these efforts were ruined if I didn’t put the correct sandwich in the right bag. After cutting each sandwich in half, I allocated the halves. If someone was supposed to receive a half sandwich of something, I had to determine who should take the other half of that sandwich. Each night, I spread out six new brown paper bags, along with the wrinkled one that my father brought back home daily. I wrote each person’s name on a bag with a bright marking pen, and I always added a little note in Dad’s bag, just to remind him that I loved him.
March on the Pentagon, Vietnam War Protest; age fifteen
We walked arm in arm for almost two miles, crossing the Potomac River. When we reached the grounds of the Pentagon, our sense of purpose and order dissolved into utter confusion; some people seemed to think that the march was over, while others were sure it had only just begun. An announcement rang out over a loudspeaker: “All those participating in direct action are on their own.” I had no idea what this meant, but it suddenly sounded ominous.
“Where are we going?” I asked between bites.
“A nudist colony,” Mom said matter-of-factly, and then she thrust seven-month-old Charlotte into Dad’s arms and glided into the next room.
“What’s a nudist colony?” Simon, now 5, asked.
“I think it’s a camp for naked people,” Naomi, who was twelve, explained tentatively. My father nodded. Neither of them looked very pleased.
We were used to being naked around each other, and to playing naked with the Miller kids, but we weren’t accustomed to being naked in public. This idea of a whole camp of nudists seemed extreme, even to all of us.
Nevertheless, not long after her announcement we were on our way. The station wagon was loaded with food and a few backpacks of clothes. Dad drove, and Mom sat upfront with Charlotte in her lap. Naomi sat in the front too, squeezed between my parents. Leah, Mia and I sat in the backseat. Danny and Simon sat behind us in the seats that faced backwards.
After a while, Simon twisted around in his seat so that his head was facing forward and posed an interesting question. “If we’re going to a naked camp, why did we have to pack all these clothes?” he wondered.
Making Sandwiches for School Lunches for family; age ten
After dinner, while Naomi washed the dishes, I laid out my materials: a tin cookie sheet, a knife, and a loaf-and-a-half of pre-sliced rye bread from Gai’s Bakery. I spread the slices out across the pan, with extra ones lapping over onto the Formica table, and, when a sandwich required mayonnaise, spread the mayonnaise onto each slice. There were seven of us who needed to have lunches to take on a daily basis—everyone except Mom, Charlotte, and Joey. Each person had special requests or needs that I needed to cater to. Danny got two sandwiches, except on days when he played football; on those days, he got two-and-a-half. Simon usually needed one-and-a-half sandwiches, but on days when he stayed late for tutoring, he received two full ones. Dad took one-and-a-half every day. Each of the girls always got one sandwich, regardless of our afterschool activities. So, there were nine sandwiches on regular days, nine-and-a-half on days when only Danny or Simon stayed late, and ten sandwiches if Simon stayed after school on the same day that Danny played football.
Calculating the number of bread slices was simple compared to the next challenge-making sure that everyone received the correct ingredients. Dad always wanted at least part of his lunch to be a cheese sandwich. Often, he would want one cheese sandwich and one half-sandwich of something else, but sometimes all one-and-a-half sandwiches in his lunch were cheese. Leah and Simon wouldn’t eat cheese sandwiches, so it was my job to find alternatives for them on the days when I made cheese for everyone else. On those days, Simon would get peanut butter and jelly, and Leah—who didn’t like that, either—might get tuna fish. Danny couldn’t stand tuna fish, so he had peanut butter and jelly on days when the rest of us ate tuna. No one besides Danny and Simon liked peanut butter very much, so on some days I would scour the fridge for leftovers and create a combination of roast beef, chicken, or jelly sandwiches for the rest of the family.
Of course, all of these efforts were ruined if I didn’t put the correct sandwich in the right bag. After cutting each sandwich in half, I allocated the halves. If someone was supposed to receive a half sandwich of something, I had to determine who should take the other half of that sandwich. Each night, I spread out six new brown paper bags, along with the wrinkled one that my father brought back home daily. I wrote each person’s name on a bag with a bright marking pen, and I always added a little note in Dad’s bag, just to remind him that I loved him.
March on the Pentagon, Vietnam War Protest; age fifteen
We walked arm in arm for almost two miles, crossing the Potomac River. When we reached the grounds of the Pentagon, our sense of purpose and order dissolved into utter confusion; some people seemed to think that the march was over, while others were sure it had only just begun. An announcement rang out over a loudspeaker: “All those participating in direct action are on their own.” I had no idea what this meant, but it suddenly sounded ominous.