Spotlight On Writers – Gabriella Balcom

I live in Texas and was born and raised here, although neither of my parents were. In order to better know and understand me, I think you need to know a bit about my father and mother, and my upbringing.

My parents were extremely different from one another in age, background, belief, and everything. My father was born in 1911 in Slovenia, my mother in 1933 in Utah. She was LDS and he Catholic, but they didn’t go to either church or practice their religions. He taught foreign languages at a college; she was an elementary school teacher. They had just one child — me — and Atu (meaning “father” in Slovenian) was well into his fifties when I was born.

Military service ran in his family, and he and his parents were patriotic down to their very bones. He lived through World War I, fought in World War II, and his brother was captured and tortured during the latter. Atu’s life experiences molded him into the man he was. He spoke often of Slovenia’s history as part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the invaders who’d attacked through the centuries. “Slav” meant “slave,” and the Slavic people cherished their freedom. Many died fighting for it.

Mom grew up in Los Angeles, talked of the gang violence there, and was happy her family moved to the South when she was thirteen. Her father was born in Utah in 1885, her mother in Nova Scotia in 1901. His line descended from pioneers who migrated from the east; earlier lines came from England, Scotland, and Germany. Her line came from Canada, and before that, Scotland and England. She was one of fourteen children and he was from a large family, too. He died way before I was born, but we visited her every summer, and she often reminisced about her past. I was fascinated by her history, along with everyone else’s, and still feel that way.

I was born in West Texas, but when I was two years old, Atu moved us further East. He collected beetles and butterflies, and chose an area with lush forests, lakes, and plant life. I grew up in a rural town and I’ve always loved that kind of locale. Right now, I live in the woods and adore both them and the wildlife here.

Atu spoke fourteen languages and taught me three from the time I could talk. My mother quit working and began teaching me to read and write when I was one. We “played school” and my stuffed animals were my classmates. I lined them up for “class” daily.

From my earliest memories, books were my constant companions. Atu’s explosive rage was, too. He was a genius, and of the smartest people I’ve ever been around, but he had untreated bipolar manic depression and PTSD. His moods changed rapidly and sometimes he thought Germans were chasing him.

In my short story, “I, Gabriella,” I wrote about my upbringing, how deeply it affected me, and the power of words in my life. Author Steve Carr, who is now deceased, published my story in his I, the Writer anthology. I want to share part of it here:

I, GABRIELLA

Unimaginable — that’s how I’d describe the power and impact of words, and they’ve been as important to me as breathing throughout the majority of my life. This may sound exaggerated, but it isn’t.

My father was a teacher and linguist; my mother taught before I was born, working in a library after. Books surrounded me from my earliest memory. My mother began teaching me to read and write when I was a year old, and my father introduced me to other languages at the same time. However, these things alone didn’t make words important to me.

I was an only child, and other than my mother “playing school” with me, I spent my time alone. Once I’d mastered reading and writing, she turned her focus elsewhere. My father spent his spare time on his hobbies. My parents never bought a TV, but loved movies, so we went to theaters a lot. They routinely took me to libraries, where I checked out dozens of books each time (I read fast). Although my parents participated in events at work, they isolated themselves in their personal lives. We visited very few people and my father didn’t allow anyone in our home. In a similar vein, I wasn’t permitted to visit classmates, and none could come see me.

A tabby cat took up residence under an old car my father had when I was small, and gave birth shortly after. She was my first friend. I remember crawling underneath the car to pet, talk, and read to her. Sometimes I fell asleep there.

But my connection to words was truly solidified by something else, the thing that had the greatest impact on me. Abuse.

My father came from another country, was much older than my mother, and had a dominant personality; my mother was passive. He emotionally abused both of us, but I alone was battered physically. Once, when I was two, he raged in the front room, smashing and demolishing things, while my mother sat nearby eating a snack and tuning him out. I ran to my room at the far end of our home, and heard him stomping down the hall in my direction. My room was tiny, the closet full, and the one hiding spot was under my bed, positioned in a corner. I crawled underneath, scooting as far back as I could, up against the wall. If I could’ve escaped into the wall, I would have. My father didn’t find me, and I stayed hidden for hours while his rampage continued. The next morning he acted as if nothing had happened.

However, his “explosions” usually led to different endings. My belongings were destroyed. I was beaten with pieces of wood, his hands, his long metal key chain, or whatever he found at hand. Occasionally, I was knocked flying. I could’ve died several times. When I said my mother was passive, I meant passive-passive. She never intervened, usually reading and eating throughout everything. Despite my father’s behavior, I know he loved me, but he believed violence was acceptable and his right.

His physical abuse stopped when I was ten. One evening, he walked over to hit me, and I went to meet him. I’d had enough. He saw that in my eyes and never struck me again. In a twisted way, my actions won his respect.

I didn’t share the above to horrify, provoke, or garner sympathy. I did to show why I desperately needed an escape. Something to give me hope for the future. Something to hold onto and provide warmth. Stories did just that, lifting me straight out of hell, transporting me to magical kingdoms, places where people laughed, were happy, triumphant over evil, and heroic. I experienced kindness, friendship, wonder, and learned of individuals enduring misery, how they survived, and countless other things. Need I say more?

Everybody’s values and life experiences are unique, and each person has a different opinion about words. As for me, I view them as much more than shapes on a page. They brought me company when I was alone, warmth in the midst of coldness and cruelty, hope when I was in despair, and I can truly say they saved me.

Everything. Ideas have poured into my mind throughout my life, although I tried to stuff them away and ignore then for several years. That was back when I was super-busy in college, rushing to and from class, working multiple jobs, and struggling to stay afloat. Once I married and began having my children, I grew busier. But things got even more hectic when I divorced my husband and was a single mother. Eventually, I couldn’t hold back the words anymore, and they flooded into my mind as if floodgates had been opened.

Many things inspire me: trees, a beautiful sky or scent, walking in the woods, songs, people I glimpse, pictures I see, past memories, movies, stories, and literally anything and everything. I could be driving along listening to music, and a conversation or character’s story might pop into my mind. Sometimes it’s hard to jot down the ideas, but I try to so they don’t fade away.