Free Girl Called Karen by Karen McConnell, Eileen Brand Page A

was never malicious or meanspirited. Ultimately he married a lovely young woman, is the father of a smart, athletic, and attractive daughter, and has trained and self-educated himself as an engineer. Today he is the manufacturer’s representative for one of the largest companies in North America.
    I have written elsewhere in this book about the gains and triumphs in my life that my resilience techniques have earned for me.
    As for all six of us, from the time my father dropped us off on various doorsteps like unwanted puppies, from Toledo to New York to Florida to Chicago, he never initiated communication with anyone. Not a single greeting card or letter or telephone call came our way, with one exception: After ignoring Larry’s existence for more than twenty years, out of a clear blue sky, our father called his first son to ask if he felt that Grandpa John’s modest estate had been fairly administered. During that conversation, he spoke of his “son,” meaning not his boys Larry or David, but Marge’s adopted child. Larry was so stunned that he couldn’t say what he was thinking, “Dammit, I’m your son!” It was the first and last conversation between father and oldest son since the days in Toledo.
    When Great-Aunt May, Grandpa John’s sister, got disoriented and sick, a Detroit bank became her financial guardian. It compiled a list of her assets and sent copies to potential heirs. My father then called Aunt Eileen for the first time in decades to find out what thatwas about, saying that Marge told him to make the phone call. It was a terse conversation.
    Over the years, he and Marge visited and called his parents from time to time. I have heard that when Grandma Lucile died, my father called Grandpa John to ask what was in her will, and when Grandpa John died, he phoned my step-grandmother to ask about will provisions.
    I have never forgotten what my father did to me that awful night, but perhaps the greatest damage came from his abandoning me and my brothers and sisters.
    Children are sensitive. We didn’t have the maturity to say, “This is an unfeeling man. He has big problems.” Rather each of us individually felt a deep sense of personal rejection. We didn’t think, “He rejected all of us.” We each felt, “He rejected me. What bad thing did I do? My dad didn’t want me.”
    Today he is an old man in his nineties living in Louisiana. Only one of us ever made an attempt to communicate with him. He was unresponsive.
    My Uncle Lyle considers him an unfeeling monster. After he disposed of all six of us children, he showed no interest in us. Nothing for Christmas, nothing for birthdays, nothing for illnesses, nothing for graduations. It was as though we were dead.
    Poor dad. He’ll never know what wonderful, bright, creative children he fathered. He’ll never know what excellent, intelligent, outstanding grand-children he has missed out on.

The house that Karen built.

CHAPTER TEN
Capturing Resilience
    I hope my history will extend your understanding of resiliency. The topic has barely been explored. Maybe it’s because scientific interest is focused on specific problems and finding answers to the perennial question: “How do we fix what’s wrong?”
    The study of resilience examines a more positive question: “What went right?”
    Throughout my years as a social worker, I have been astounded by the resilience of children. I wish we could pass it out in a capsule. As I checked the meager research, I realized that my life can illustrate how a child may grow into a competent, thriving adult after bad things happen. Children survive much worse abuse than I experienced. I’ve got to admit that when I read A Boy Called It by the very successful Dave Pelzer, which describes unspeakable abuse by his mother, I thought,“There is adversity with a capital A. Such unrelenting, daily savagery is beyond my ken.” Certainly, what I survived was more tolerable.
    Many children suffer adversity and flourish