Canadian Corruption
Sexual Abuse & Political & Legal Conspiracy. RCMP Incompetence & Cover up.
Priors Of Grand Bank NFLD Canada
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Page 2

T. Alexander Hickman

Besides, she never had a chance anyway. Her Mother was a diagnosed Manic Depressant and her Father was nothing short of a pervert. Uncle Max told me and Suzanne that Grandmother was a diagnosed Manic Depressant and her Mother before her. I have to wonder what went on in their lives and their home. I bet if Moms family were to be honest they would have many a story to tell. For me this whole story is regarding abuse. Mental, Physical and sexual abuse. Abuse upon ones own children. If I waver back and forth from one subject to another please bare with me for I am trying to write this as it comes to me in all honesty. Of my youth I recall most of all is FEAR. Fear of MOM. Fear of life. Fear of Love. Fear of being unloved. Fear of not being accepted by my peers. Fear of failure. Fear of becoming a whore, a drunk, a drug addict and God forbid, the fear of becoming a murderer. By the grace of God I became none of the above. Unfortunately for some of my brothers and sisters they have had some difficulty dealing with the past and sometimes turned to drugs as an escape. But they have all done pretty well to date keeping themselves on track. We have no hardened criminals and no murderers among us which you may find amazing as the story unfolds. We were all very strong individuals; we had to be in order to survive the ordeal. It has not been an easy road for any of us but we made it and maybe we can become a family for once in our lives. Maybe we can look each other in the eye someday and understand why we did and do the things we do. I Love each and everyone of my brothers and sisters so much. We all had so much potential if given even half a chance at life. Our Mother stole away our chances at life. She played us all one against the other from the day we were born. She still continues to do so to this very day. She played us all so much that we carried it into our adulthood. We are, to put it mildly, a dysfunctional family.

For all the people who were aware of our abuse and chose to ignore and or stifle it; I THANK YOU!!!! I thank you for nothing. God knows that you all knew. Everyone in town knew. The people who never actually witnessed it were told. We asked for their help. No one wanted to get involved. Let them do it themselves. They are nobody. They are disposable trash TRASH!!! That is what we were always told and always programmed to think. We were poor; yet Dad made a good living. (Mom drank it) We were dirty. NOT!!! We had head lice. WE did not!!! My sister Lucy and I were almost always inseparable. One night we were given a lacing and sent to bed without any supper. Lucy and I decided that this was all wrong and we were tired of living in fear and getting beaten. So we decided to climb out of the bedroom window onto the porch roof and run to the police station in order to tell on her. Well, Lucy was half way out the window and I remained inside when Mom burst into the room. She tried to grab us but I managed to push Lucy out the window. I was a Tom Boy and no one could hurt Lucy while I was around (no one except Mom of course) I always tried to protect her. I then proceeded out the window myself. Mom bit down into my breast and took a piece of flesh right out of me. But I got out of the window anyway. Lucy and I made our way to the police station where we found ourselves being treated like criminals. They put us in a room by ourselves. They never looked at my breast or even asked us any questions. They just did not want to listen to us. It was as if they were expecting us. I assume they called Mom because the next thing we knew we were sent home to another more severe beating. From that moment on Lucy and I decided that if the Police would not help us then nobody would. We just lived in fear and longed for the day we could get away from it all. We therefore endured it and never told clergy, teachers, relatives or anyone else of the dilemma.

I lived with my friend Ellen Piercey and her Mom for a while when Mom kicked me out of the house. I did disclose to them what our life was like. Ellen did also witness some of the abuse when I was at home. Though it is not my aim to hurt anyone I feel that a grave injustice has been done to all of us by our families. They all knew. They saw. They were told by my brother and sister. They all ignored it. Not one of them helped. NO ONE!!!! Even my Aunt Melinda, whom I love and adore as a Mother, is also at fault. She knew we were being abused. Donna always ran to Aunt Melinda's house after she was abused. She would tell Aunt Melinda. She also knew Dad was being abused. He also ran to her house after he was abused. He told her of his abuse and she admitted that to me. Even Dad himself was at fault. I sometimes want to hate him but I can not. For he was a victim also. I often ask myself why he left us with her when he knew we were being abused. We may not have told him but he must have known that if she was abusing him she had to be abusing us. He knew she abused my brother Byron so why did he not help us?? He could just go away from it all on the boats but we lived a nightmare every day of our lives. Waking up in the morning was a task for us. We would get jolted out of our sleep with her yelling and screaming get out of that bed you lazy good for nothings. Start cleaning the house, change the kids, cook the food and whatever else she wanted us to do. If we could make it through the day without a beating we were considered lucky. That was our idea of having a good day. That is something to aim for, HEY?? You ate whatever food you were given whether it was disgusting or not. Even if it made you puke. If you had a pet you really loved she would summon the local Police to have it taken away and shot to death. Chuck Laundry killed my dog that I adored because Mom insisted. He tried to talk her out of it because it was breaking my heart but she was so damn cold she just did not care. I am certain Chuck remembers it because he returned to the house after to make sure I was OK. He hated to do it also but she insisted. Cruelty to Dad? Boy it that an understatement! It continued right down to the day he died and may have contributed to his death. On the evening of June 20, 1976 I was out with my friends. Mom slept on the couch for some time now because Dad did all his natural bodily functions in the bed.

Mom did not want to be changing the sheets all of the time so she gave him very little food and barely any drink. She had started to give him popsicles though. Sometimes it would be two days that he laid in his own functions in the bed. She would say that the smell coming from his bedroom was a result of his being rotten inside from cancer. I recall my Dad being so hungry that he picked Salt Beef fat from the kitchen garbage container and ate it. She would rather throw it out than give it to him. Dad was a smoker for most of his life and he really enjoyed it. When he would have time off from the boats for a vacation Mom would not let him have money for cigarettes. Not because she was concerned for his health but because whe wanted the money. During these times I saw Dad walking down the street and picking up cigarette butts as he went. He would tuck them in his pocket and smoke them on the sly later. I never told Dad I knew and I certainly did not tell Mom. Do you not think smoking someone else's butts helped contribute to a greater extent to his lung cancer? Is she not indirectly responsible for that? One day I was in my bedroom with my window up and smoking a cigarette. Dad caught me. He did not should me. You know what he did? He said give me a smoke and I will not tell your Mother. Happily I obliged. He and I sat at the window and smoked together. It was real neat sitting with my Dad for at least five minutes for once in our lifetime. Getting back to June 20, 1976. I arrived home later in the evening. All the lights in the house were out. As I entered the kitchen I heard Dads sore raspy voice say Joanie please give Dad a drink. I said Dad you know you are not allowed to have a drink but I will give you a popsicle.

As I approached the refrigerator to get Dad a popsicle Mom shouted, you get to bed. I told her Dad was extremely thirsty but she said, you get to bed before you get the belt. I told Dad Mom would not let me give him anything and he begged me to. I was so afraid of her that I went directly to bed. She went to sleep and I had assumed that Dad had gone to sleep. Sometime during the night I was awakened by a terrible thirst. I went to the bathroom sink to get a drink but I could not seem to quench the thirst. I went back to sleep only to be awakened once again by that same nagging thirst. I tried the washroom sink again, to no avail. I was so dry I spit in the sink. The next day and for as long as I lived in that house there was a stain in that sink where I spit. I could not quench my thirst that evening with water. I went downstairs to ask Mom if I could have one of Dads popsicles and to tell her that I would replace it the following day. She said ok. Then Dad again asked me for a drink. I said that Mom would not permit me to. I went to bed. I heard Mom shouting at him to get to sleep. I went to sleep after eating the popsicle. Next morning I got up early to go to school to do my scholarship exam. As I entered the kitchen to go to the sink to wash up I glanced toward Dads bedroom. I saw Mom bending down in the closet. I saw Dad laying there in the bed. He was so yellow in colour and completely motionless. I knew at that moment that he was dead. I shouted at Mom and started screaming. The younger children ran downstairs and jumped on me. I took them all outside in the front yard and held them. They cried. I did not. I knew I had to be strong for them. We just stood there in the yard holding each other and waiting for the ambulance to arrive.

I believed then and I believe now that the terrible thirst I was feeling the previous night was the same that Dad was feeling. I believe it was Gods way of letting me know how it felt. I also believe that the stain in the sink was meant to be a constant reminder to me of what I could have done to help my Father and did not. For many years I blamed myself for his death but I have come to realize that it was out of my control. If there is anyone to blame it is Harriet. About two weeks after my Fathers death my Mother asked me to deliver a note to Jim Baker who would be at Fred Rogers Store. I delivered the note. I then went out for the evening and when I returned home Mom and Jim were cuddling on the couch. They were laughing and carrying on like two teenagers. I freaked! I ran to my room. Punched a hole in the wall and wrecked my room. During this period I had been working at Bonavista Cold Storage, a fish processing plant in town. The next day Mom asked me to leave the house. I had yet to cry or grieve for my father. I then decided to quit my job and go to Calgary with my sister Donna. I had to go away because there was no family that would help me and Donna was the only one who would take me. While I was in Calgary I began to grieve for my Father. During my stay in Calgary my Mother married Jim Baker. I only found out through the grape vine. She never did tell me. With Mom everything was money and sex. While I worked on the plant she took $40.00 a week off me. All other kids in town helped their parents at that time with $15.00 a week. $40.00 a week was excessive twenty two years ago. If I only made $25.00 for one week she would take all of that and I would owe her $15.00 on the top of that the following week. One paycheck I bought myself a new $300.00 Guitar. I had a yearning to play the guitar and sing. Before I got it out of the box, however, I had to leave the house. The week before I went to Calgary I did not pay Mom the $40.00 for the week because we had agreed that I needed it to relocate.

After I arrived in Calgary I wrote home for my guitar because I was ready to start learning to play. That is when I was told that she sold it to the music Teacher at the school for the $40.00 board I did not pay her the week before I left. I want to learn to play the guitar now but I am almost scared to pick it up. I will some day though. Redd, my honey, is going to get one custom made for me when I am ready. I should not have been surprised that Mom did it though. When my brother Byron was a young man he went on the boats with Dad to earn money to buy an old car. He bought the car. He then went on another trip with Dad in order to earn money for gas and maintenance when he returned to school. To his dismay, when he returned home from the trip on the boat she had sold the car and spent the money. She spent all the money on booze and crap while we lived on bread and molasses, or bread and sugar half the time. Sometimes when Dad came home we got a little money for bologna and coke. Sometimes though when he came in port he never even came to the house because my Mom would send Byron down to the boat with notes telling him not to come home for one reason or another. Allan and Randell use to sneak to the boat to see Dad and he would give them bottles of pennies. At sixteen years old I was away out West, grieving for my Father, hungry at times. I remember eating Crisco on bread because I had no food or money. In fact an old boyfriend of mine, Jerome Hayes, paid my way back from there to St. john's. All the while though Mom was receiving a pension for me until I was eighteen years old and she was cashing it and I did not know. Dad provided that pension for me to continue my Education. What gave her the right to deny me that?? At one point I was accepted for Trade School in Burin and she said I could not go because we could not afford it. Well surprise surprise Joanie!! Are your turning in your grave yet Dad??? Maybe you should because you never did anything to get us out if it either.

It was us against the world. When Dad was in the wheelchair I saw Mom dump him down fourteen steps. One night he wanted to go to the washroom. Mom took him to the toilet in the wheelchair and dumped him on the floor. I caught her and I tried to get Dad up. He was dead weight. I went to the room of Allan and Randell and awakened them and got them to help me put him back in the chair. No one ever told us that we counted for anything. No one ever told us that we were loved. We never received gifts from Uncles and Aunts, or Grandparents like our cousins did. If we ever did it was small in comparison to theirs. We always wore hand me downs. No one ever took us out anywhere or invited us to their homes for dinner. The only times I got invited into my aunts homes was when they wanted me to baby-sit for a dime or iron for a quarter. We were used, abused and taken advantage of by everyone. Some of our relatives we never did know because when they came to town they wanted nothing to do with Harriett's click. Harriett's Click; that is how they fondly referred to us. How terribly bitter sweet! No one wanted anything to do with Harriett because they knew who and what she was. But did they even try to protect us????????? They Shun us!!!

The only things Mom ever tried to teach us was that money and sex were the do all, say all. We never discussed what we wanted to be when we grew up. We never discussed anything. We were not permitted to have an opinion on anything. We just plain existed for her to abuse. We did not matter to her; Dad did not matter to her. Nothing and no one besides herself, money and sex mattered to her. She is the most selfish person that I have had the unfortunate experience of ever knowing. My greatest fear in life, even greater than my fear of her is becoming like her. That is when I would have to commit suicide. We were never permitted to tell our Father that we loved him. We were threatened with violence if we uttered those words. You know What? I never once told my Father that I loved him. That is something I live with every day of my life. I was the last person to see my Father alive and I never even told him that I loved him. I could have granted my Father his last dying wish but Mom would not permit it. I was terrified of her. I dream of my Father often. I long to talk to him. To know him. To love him. To tell him what I am telling you. Though I was a child of sixteen when he died I will always carry some guilt and shame with me for the remainder of my days.

My Father died on June 21, 1976. I remember that day vividly. I was to go to the High School in the morning to write a scholarship exam. My Father had been bedridden for quite some time. On occasion he was out of bed and in a wheelchair. I also remember my Father in the downstairs bedroom which was close to the dining room table. My fathers lungs were failing and you could hear him wheezing all over the house. The sound would drive me crazy. I remember sitting at the table and asking my Mother if she could keep him quiet so that I could eat.

I had no idea how close to death he actually was. We never talked. We were not permitted to talk to him. Mom had to have all the attention. I also carry guilt for making that comment. I was programmed to dislike my Father by a very controlling, dominating, cruel woman. A woman who is also a pathological liar. She should have become an actress. She would have received many as Oscar. She could and still does manipulate anyone and everyone. She fooled many a person far far more educated than she was. She fooled everyone; Doctors, psychiatrists, teachers, clergy, social workers, CNIB. She is a con; a PRO. She sometimes even fooled our friends. She was better to them than she was to us. She always wore her mask. She is a psychopath. She is nuts but still very aware of what she is doing while doing it. She has the ability to intimidate anyone. She is so smart she is crazy!! I recall my Mother drinking excessively. During these drunken binges there were always strange men and women in the house. Every alcoholic in town. I remember her taking my eldest sister Suzanne with her in the car drinking and driving to Marystown and St. Lawrence cruising for men. Sometimes I believe Suzanne's friends would accompany them. Some of Suzanne's friends at the time were Marie Greene (Roberts), Shirley Hillier, Bertha Stewart, Dulcie Hillier, Margaret Durnford. I know the men always went to the bedroom with my Mother and always gave her money after. Men whom I recall are as follows: (legal action) ( I suspect he is the Father of my sister Georgie and my brother Dougie), Gord Crowley, Carl Crowley, Art Trimm, Kevin Joy, Grandfather Prior, Phil Noseworthy, and various furniture salesmen.

There are numerous others whom I suspect but will not name as I did not see them in the bedroom. As for my physical abuse it was minimal. There was much greater emotional abuse that I was subjected to. For some reason I was a bit of a pet probably because I was so scared to do anything wrong. I saw what was being done to my older sisters and brother. I can recall getting many a lacing with the leather belt. The frying pan cord was her specialty though. They were basically a whipping or lashing on your bare body; face included. But these lacings in our household were acceptable because it was a regular daily occurrence for someone. One day Lucy was in Dads lap and I was standing on a chair reaching for him when Mom suddenly, and without cause, pulled the bread knife across the back of his neck and cut him open. I guess she did it because Dad had our attention. I witnessed Mom throwing Dad out of the house on many occasions. She would tell him to go back to the boat. She would chase him up the hill with a hot kettle or a hot stove iron. There were times he was running out the yard in sock feet with her throwing his rubber boots behind him.  

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Editor's note: T. Alex Hickman is also a member of the Order of Canada, and a past GRAND MASTER of all Newfoundland Freemasons. He is also a member of the St. John's, Masonic Temple Group. Wes Penre