Getting back to it…
Life was eventful, but for many years I had few memorable experiences in relation to the race thing. I stayed in Indiana for a year or two, then moved to California for a year. I moved in with a childhood friend who was a career Marine. He was like a brother to me, which his wife quickly understood.
I took a job at the newspaper in town, and was assigned to the Camp Pendleton Scout, the military newspaper. I lived, worked and hung out with Marines, male and female. Those experiences, and my WWII veteran father, gave me a love for this country and our service men and women.
Oceanside was overrun with Marines, mostly men looking for women. Once, while walking to work, an enormous man walked up to me and said, “Do you date?” in the deepest voice I’d ever heard. He was a very muscular black man, probably close to seven feet tall and I’m not quite 5’3”. I stared up in fear and just answered, “No,” before skirting around him quickly. I was emotionally shaken by his size and my neck actually hurt from looking up so high.
About a month later, while sitting on a bench waiting for a bus, a guy pulled up on a Harley and asked if I wanted a ride. A similar fear gripped me as the one in Chicago a few years earlier. My gut was sounding the alarm. The very hairy, skinny, ZZ-top looking, white biker hesitated after I declined his offer, then rode away. It didn’t hit me at the time, but I realize now that your gut warns you of danger, at least mine does, without discrimination.
Sometime later I began dating a guy my “brother” brought home to me. Everyone was always trying to fix me up, but this time was a winner. He was a muscular, not-too-tall tan Marine with dark hair and a sexy, deep voice. He seemed to be very sweet and we began seeing quite a bit of each other. He was funny and attentive. Unfortunately, this time, my gut didn’t warn me.
As our relationship progressed he ended up telling me that he was a sadist. He explained that he was into violent sex and started sharing what he wanted to do to me. I ended the conversation and got him to take me home. A few days later I received a very disturbing card in the mail from him. It had a picture of a man in a ski mask on the cover and I’ll leave the rest to your imagination. I didn’t even know where you could buy something like that. After the card I began avoiding my suiter’s calls. The Marine whose house I was living in was very upset with me. I was afraid to tell him what his friend was suggesting, as my brother Marine was very protective. My plan was to leave out the details and hope the questioning would die out.
One day the gorgeous sadist showed up at our door. We hung out at the house together all day and he was very pleasant. When the other residents left the house the conversation began again. This time I was not subtle. I told him, “There are plenty of guns in this house and, if you ever hurt me, I will shoot you.”
His answer was, “What is pain?” That was the nail in the coffin, no pun intended. I told him I didn’t want to see him again and asked him to leave, with a knot in my gut. He was about to be discharged and left the area soon after. A few weeks later my roomies cornered me about the breakup and my brother Marine sarcastically asked, “What is he, a masochist?” When I looked stunned his voice changed as he slowly asked, “What did he do?” I assured him that he hadn’t hurt me. I was glad he was gone and there would be no military confrontation.
My point for adding this story is to share the lessons I learned. Again, a white man wanted to hurt me, this time in the name of love. I was repeatedly learning that race was no indicator of intentions. The huge Marine on the street may have been a nice guy, though lacking social skills. His size terrified me and I would never have dated anyone, of any race, that was that large. My small size has made me cautious in case I ever did need to defend myself. This was another “men lesson” learned.
To be continued . . .