Midnight Reflections and Ramblings from a Tired 33-Year-Old Dad

Recently I was asked to write a "My Story" for my PhD and how it relates to the research that I do. I had to pause for quite a bit. How does my story align with my research? In a way, it is everything. But at the same time, it is so much trauma that there seems like there is no connection. I found myself writing, and as I wrote I noticed tears were flowing down my eyes. Why? I guess I write because I don't know what else to do when I feel this way.

Growing up in the 90s was a fun time, but also a traumatic time. No less than any other individual, but growing up on the reservation had its special moments, for better, or worse. I grew up watching my father abuse my mother and neglect his children. Four of us, initially, and then five of us later. I feel for my older brother as he took the brunt of it, but I also feel for my youngest brother, because he didn't grow up really knowing his father. Was that a good thing? Should he have known his father in the same capacity that his older siblings knew him? Was he spared? Or was he worse off because of it? I don't know, but I think about it all of the time.

My mom dealt with my father's abuse for years, and always put her body in harms way to protect us. In her mind, it was best to stay as a family so long as she takes all of the abuse; that never lasts, however. One day, my father, for whatever reason, came into the little trailer we had--you know, the ones you tow, that has a single bed in the back next to the bathroom and in the middle is the little table, and across from it is the refrigerator, and towards the hitch area, on top, is another bed area? All of us kids slept together at the top. We lived in a remote location in the woods in Graham, Washington at this time--when he came in, he ended up grabbing a pan and he hit my brother in the head with it.

My mom screamed and tried to stop him, only to get hit herself. That day changed everything. My mom took us away and we lived in our old Van, went from hotel to hotel, with what little money we had, since my dad was the one who worked and my mom stayed home to take care of us. Anyways, they ended up getting divorced and my mom took custody of us. She eventually got onto section 8 and was able to get a rental in Auburn that we lived in for a couple years. It wasn't anything too big, but the neighborhood had kids we could play with and that's where I got my first actual girlfriend, but that was right before we moved to Lewis County. I don't recall the exact dates, but it must have been between 2001 and 2004. I remember we lived there when my grandfather died--that was my first real experience of loss.

When my mom divorced my dad, after a period of time, we would go over to our grandmother and uncles house to see him. While our experiences were very traumatic, we also had good memories of him.

Every year he would bring us to the White River. We would camp out, shoot guns, hike (barefoot I might add) in the scorching sun with rocks that felt like lava every time you stepped on them, but it was a blast, and sold fireworks on the allotment. His firework stand was called "Thundershak." We all loved it, even that one time I almost drowned for floating the White, flipping over, and holding on to some branches with my cousin, who also almost drowned. That was a blast though, but I was quickly reminded when I got scolded by my father about losing the innertube, that he does have his mean side.

Anyways, we would visit him, where ever he was at. At my grandma's it was a blast, we grew very close with her--our connection to our culture. But, i quickly found out that, when my dad was staying at my uncles, my uncle took that opportunity to prey on me.

One night, I found myself being embraced by my uncle while everyone was asleep. I don't know if he did this before, but that night I woke up. And as I woke up, he covered my mouth and started touching my penis, asking if I liked it. As a young boy, I had no clue what was going on (mind you, we didn't have internet, and during this time in the world there wasn't such a social presence that linked everyone and brought information out) but I just remember I felt violated and felt shame. This continued up until 2004 when I moved away. He did try again in 2005, but I told him "i'm too old." for whatever reason. Oh, one thing that does stick out is I remember wearing belts as tight as possible when I would visit my dad at my uncle's, in hopes that he wouldn't be able to reach his slimy hands in my pants.

After this, for my teenage years I could not recall that this happened. It wasn't until a family conversation came about when my other uncle expressed that he had been sexually assaulted as a young boy, that I started to remember. After that day, I started having dreams and remembering, vividly, what had happened. I don't know if this impacted me, psychologically, but I do know that it is impacting me right now, as a 33 year old man, with two kids and a loving partner of his own.

When I was 24 and working on the reservation as a Lead Lifeguard for the Wellness Center, I took that opportunity to go over and confront my uncle. Before I knocked on his door, I turned my phone on and hit record, and then turned the screen off. I recorded my conversation with my uncle, asking if he had remembered what he did to me. Weirdly enough, he didn't deny it. In fact, he said, "oh yeah, you must have been 8 or 10 or something" or something along those lines. So I had the evidence of him admitting to the crime he had committed. And what did I do? Nothing. Once again, Wayne didn't do anything. Now that I am older, I should have. A year after that, he was found molesting a 15-year old boy, and today he is wasting away at McNeil Island. The funny thing is, I used to work at the Office of Public Defense in Olympia, Washington, and we would often have to advocate for individuals at McNeil Island, by law. Fortunately, I never had to speak or advocate for that man, but it's just a funny twist of fate, don't you think?

I could never have done this while my grandma was alive. I loved my grandma so much, and she was my uncle's caretaker. I felt as if she may have disowned me if I had told her what her brother had done. This is one of those weird family dynamics. I just don't know. I did tell my dad, however. I remember my dad immediately went to grab his rifle and go kill the man. Ironic, I think, because where was he when this was happening? He was either drunk in bed in that same trailer as his uncle, or hanging out with his buddies smoking weed, once again ignoring his kids.

The thing about my father is that while for most of our adolescence and teen years he was just traveling the world, doing drugs, and hustling for what money he could. That included treaty-fishing, selling fireworks, or even building Chehalis Tribe's "Thunder Cannabis" with his business partner. The latter half of that only occurred after he got a medical condition that caused him to have a pacemaker in him.

I think that this really opened his eyes and showed him what matters most. Because while he was building Thunder Cannabis, he was aiming to be in a position where he can leave something for his kids for when he passes. He sure did try. It wasn't until this where I saw a loving father who tried.

When I graduated with my Bachelor's degree, he showed up and told me how proud of me he was. And again when I got my Master's, he told me how proud of me he was. And when my partner went into labor, I called him and told him. At the time, he was partying at his buddy's house on the rez. I tell you, he got to the hospital faster than he drove down the river to set net at opening day of fisheries. He brought the party with him too. This was during covid, he was not allowed in the hospital, so he partied in the parking lot in his truck with his dog, shared a couple drinks with my father and mother-in-law, and toked it out till the next morning.

When my kid was born it changed everything. And in that instant I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. I went out to the parking lot and told him it was a boy! Because we didn't find the gender until he was born. He was so proud. He teared up, gave me a hug and told me he was proud of me. As I write this part I can't help but cry. I miss him, and I miss that hug and the smell of swishers mixed with a little bit of alcohol and a little bit of weed, as weird as that may seem. It's nostalgic. Kind of like the smell of diesel and gas remind me of my grandpa, because he was a tow truck driver.

A bit after my son was born, I bought my first house along with my partner. My dad again was so proud of me. He was over often, just to have a drink, chat, and to get to know his grandson, and his son, a bit more. I cherish those moments. I will, for the rest of my life. They didn't last though.

My father, in November of 2023, went missing in the Duwamish river and was presumed dead. He went out with two of his friends, and only his two friends came back. They didn't call the police and tell them he went overboard and drowned, they didn't tell anyone. I won't go into details, but in my non-legal opinion--it was foul play. We didn't get much help from pretty much anyone to recover his body. It took a little under two weeks to finally recover his body. Most of the people looking were our own community at Muckleshoot. Surprise, surprise. Who could care for another drunken Indian? Certainly not the City of Seattle, or the State of Washington. The only reason we found him is because we had an amazing Tribal member using her drone to look for him, along with a Tribal worker. And they didn't even have the permit to be flying the drone to look for him. But, community, right? I think Indians know this.

Anyways, well, I guess that's that story. Which brings us to today. I now have two kids, and like I said in my grounding post, this is kind of like a diary for my kids. So they can know me and understand me a bit.

Recently, I have taken a liking to Tiny Humans, Big Emotions by Alyssa Blask Campbell and Lauren Elizabeth Stauble as a way of better understanding children. What struck me was something incredibly simple. They say something along the lines of: if your toddler cannot zip up their jacket without your help, what makes you think they can regulate their emotions without your help? That landed with me. It made me think about how often I feel frustrated with the simplest things.

Listening to this helped me slow down. It reminded me that regulation is learned through support, not expectation. The authors also reference the ten core elements identified in the original CDC-Kaiser Permanente Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) study, experiences such as abuse, neglect, and household dysfunction, which show how early environments shape long-term emotional and physical health. What stood out to me is that many of these harms are not just about what happens to a child, but about what happens without help, protection, or repair.

They list 10 core ACEs elements:

physical abuse
sexual abuse
emotional abuse
physical neglect
emotional neglect
mental illness in the home
substance abuse
a mother treated violently
parental separation/divorce
and an incarcerated household member

As a young boy, I experienced 9 out of 10 of these.

As a father, I struggle. I become irritable easily. My patience runs thin, and afterward I feel shame--for reacting too quickly, for saying things I should not say. I carry a great deal of anger, and at times it surfaces before I can fully understand it. Maybe this is because of my childhood? Maybe this is because of the death of my father?

I find myself asking the same questions over and over: Why did this happen? Why should any little boy have to go through this? The anger is not only about what occurred, but about the fact that it occurred at all--about the injustice of it, and the permanence of its effects. I am not angry because I lack love or care; I am angry because I know what harm looks like, and I am terrified of passing it forward. And I am terrified of my being taken from my children too early.

Despite that, when I look at my two sons, i see their innocence, their curiosity, and just overall them enjoying their life. This is my wish, or maybe not. Because if I didn't go through this, would they have? Perhaps it was best that this did happen to me? So that my children don't experience this same thing? Is this what it takes?

In some strange way, this is part of my healing.
To tend to wounds this deep--both old and new--is no simple thing.
Any time I am stretched too thin, I bleed.

I am hoping for help.
Help that writing this may bring.
Help I might find within myself.
Help that may come from others.
I don't know.

What I do know is this: I am trying.
Trying to move through this world in a way that protects my family,
that keeps them safe, that lets them be happy.
Even when it means turning toward what hurts,
instead of away from it.

This is what it means to live with unresolved, cumulative childhood trauma--
and still choose to leave something better behind.
For my children.
And for their children, too.

Epilogue: Holding Big Emotions With Small Hands

Writing this story made me pause. I cried while writing it, not because I was surprised by what I remembered, but because I finally allowed myself to sit with it. I write because I do not know what else to do when I feel this way. And now, as a father of two, I understand that this is not just my story anymore. It is also a record of what I am choosing to do differently.

Growing up in the 90s was fun, but it was also traumatic. Growing up on the reservation had its own special moments, for better or worse.

When that life finally ended, it ended violently, suddenly, and permanently.

Some of the people who were supposed to protect me did not. Some of the people I loved hurt me. Some of the people who should have noticed did not. For a long time, I forgot. And then one day, I remembered. And remembering changed everything.

I carried that silence into adulthood. Even when I had proof. Even when I had a recording. Even when I knew. I did nothing. That silence was learned. It was practiced. It was survival.

My father was many things. He was absent. He was violent. He was neglectful. He was also, later in life, proud, loving, and present. He showed up for my graduations. He showed up when my son was born. He hugged me and told me he loved me.

When he died, our community found him. Not institutions. Not systems. Community. That, too, is part of this story.

Now I have two children of my own. Tiny humans with big emotions. And I understand something I could not understand before: children do not need perfect parents. They need regulated ones. They need safety. They need honesty. They need adults who can hold their emotions without silencing them, minimizing them, or punishing them for having them. And most of all, they need adults that are present.

I was not given that. But I can give it.

This writing is not about blame. It is about responsibility. It is about breaking cycles without pretending they did not exist. It is about teaching my children that their feelings matter, that their bodies are their own, that love does not require silence, and that protection is not conditional.

This is why I write. This is why I remember. This is why I stay present, even when it hurts. To do better, be better.

This is my epilogue--not an ending, but a commitment.

For my children.

-love dad