Truth, Trauma and a Trans Am Tattoo

This story contains themes of misogyny and emotional abuse, in addition to mention of substance misuse and a wee bit of swearing.

The Truth is, I despised my Uncle Dougie. Nothing about him felt safe. A tall boy in one hand and a Player’s Light in the other, he could not be described as kind, and too many beers spiralled quickly into mean and menacing.

He wounded with his words.

Hurling insults at innocent family members was his specialty. We endured, stuck in fear and disbelief. Except that he repeated the same pattern at every family gathering, always the worst on Christmas day, always the same target, his younger sister Susie. My aunt would finally break down under the weight of his abuse, tired of fighting back, leaving early, convinced that she was a ‘fat, worthless bitch.’ Why did he pick on her and leave his two older sisters alone? Who kept inviting this asshole to family Christmas in the first place? Why didn’t someone, anyone stand up to him? Because in the eyes of this family’s patriarch, he was the Golden Boy and he could do no wrong.

He left wreckage.

Failed marriage to the only woman who brought light to our family, estranged from his children, allegations of abuse, inherited everything and refused to share the wealth with his sisters, tarnished the family business with his dirty habits. He was found in a pool of his own blood. 52. The body can only take so much poison.

Somehow I avoided being his victim but as I look back there were near misses, always encouraged by my mother. To get in his car when he’d been drinking, to keep him company in a spare bedroom when he was passed out and tucked away from the Christmas chaos, and the object of his desire at a family wedding as a 16 year-old. “Laura. Dance with me. We can pretend we are a couple. You know. Together.” The words were slurred but the intention was clear. My mother leaning over to me, whispering, “You should dance with him. He’s lonely. It’d make him so happy.” And so I left my body and went to the dance floor, enduring his cheap beer and cigarettes reek and his attempt to pull me in closer as he stumbled to Lady in Red and I wondered why my mother didn’t keep me safe.

Fast-forward to present day and my younger brother casually mentioning that he was getting a tattoo in honour of Uncle Dougie. My mind was like fireworks and my reaction was visceral but I could not find the words. Is nobody going to say it? Like what the actual fuck, Elliott? Is this some kind of joke? Have you lost your mind? Except it was a carved in stone plan – image selected and appointment booked for Wednesday. It was already Sunday when he dropped this bomb. Our uncle – the epitome of toxic masculinity, a monster who devastated the lives of others, about to be permanently glorified?

There is one more important detail to layer in here. When we were growing up, Uncle Dougie drove a muscle car, a midnight black Trans Am, and this was my brother’s inspiration – a tattoo depicting the huge ‘screaming chicken’ decal on his massive forearm complete with our uncle’s birthdate and the day that he took up residence in hell. I googled the image and was intrigued. But the idea that my brother would willingly, enthusiastically ink his body with this evil? Not on my watch. No fucking way. While I’d given up on so many battles over the years, feminism a dirty ‘f’ word in my family, he’d have his hands full with this one. I enlisted the sisterhood – his wife – seeking advice. How could I have this conversation with him and keep our relationship intact? He revered Uncle Dougie for reasons that I may never understand. Things went south quickly. She had no idea that this was the plan and a sacred bond was broken. The conversation ended with a shared understanding. She would do whatever it took to derail this plan, in the name of all of the women in our family.

As I write about Uncle Dougie, there is so much more to this story about Truth and trauma. This is how memory works, isn’t it? You remember one small thing and the effect is like a cascade of dominoes, falling rapidly, waking up the next memory and the next, ready or not, here I come. The flood can be overwhelming and relentless. My mother told me that her parents were rich but that never made sense to me. Rich people lived in big fancy houses and drove big fancy cars, didn’t they? My grandparents’ house was tiny, three bedrooms to be shared six ways, one bathroom, one floor with a dark, dank space underneath that my grandma would climb down in to and crawl back out of to do the laundry. Good thing she was short – 4’11” to be exact, with a plump frame, no stranger to eating her feelings. While the rooms of this haunted house spilled over with people and food and booze and card games played for money, voices growing louder as the drinks kept flowing, the heat was stifling as Grandma churned out meals for 13 in a tiny kitchen with about 3 feet of counter space. Grandpa would sit nearby supervising, a cigarette held between nicotine stained fingers and a cut crystal glass of Crown Royal and criticism. “My mother will always be a better cook than you are, Rosie.” No wonder she went to bed right after dinner, saying that she had a headache. Or did she say heartache but no one could hear her over the chaos? She drove a beat up Oldsmobile with ripped upholstery and cigarette burns. She ran the business but Grandpa drove a new truck, bought himself booze and guns and fancy things, hoarded the rest of the money and doled out a weekly allowance of $25. No wonder our Christmas gifts left a little to be desired. Grandma did the best that she could from a place of lack – lack of love, lack of money, lack of power. Women were to be meek and mild, finding a man to take care of them. This was the message. Brave, fierce women need not apply to this family. 

And so there was Truth and a deep remembering but no Trans Am tattoo. Isn’t it interesting that after someone dies we remember the good parts and somehow forget all of the bad? I will continue to tell the whole story. I can’t remember the good parts. This legacy lies just below the surface in our family and I’ll stay vigilant. The trauma stops here.