Books, NonFiction

Childhood Trauma in Alan Cummings’ Not My Father’s Son

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Length 294
Quick Review A beautifully honest dive into heartbreaking memories that helped create an incredible talent in actor Alan Cummings. 

Reading Not My Father’s Son with my boy, Knight.

Alan Cummings is a celebrated actor with exceptional range. Acting wasn’t just a calling, it was a means to an end, the way to survive being at home with his father. He revisits the childhood trauma that led to an acting career with painful sincerity in his memoir Not My Father’s Son

Growing up in rural Scotland, Alan Cummings was different. He was not the son his father wanted. He was not like his older brother, but his brother did not inspire warmth or fatherly love either. He recalls the moments and memories that made him full of abuse, joy, fear, and affairs. With each heartstopping recollection, a vivid picture of the resilient man Cummings became solidifies in the reader’s mind. Adulthood meant escaping the house that held so many terrifying years and life to be proud of, but even in the face of freedom, Cummings’ past is a part of his present. 

I have a love for memoires. Memory is fascinating, and what stays in one person’s mind as a defining moment in their lives tells a great deal about who they are and how they see themselves. Not every writer can delve into their emotional past with the same raw integrity Cummings does. He has an intense ability to capture his childhood fears and memories and desires for better within the page. There is bravery in the way he writes and tells the world, ‘This is who I am and who I came from, but I am more than this.’ As a grown woman dealing with the psychological violence of childhood, I could wholly identify with Cummings as I read, “It is a startling thing, the need to feel utterly believed.” Violence does not happen in a vacuum, but it is often recovered from in one. Having just one person who believes in the truth of your story is a powerful thing and the greatest gift you can give a survivor.  

Trauma and violence is a fickle thing. Cummings is able to bring words to the effects of living in a home where violence is as much a family member as his mother, brother, and father, “I actually think the prolonged period of tension before landing his blows, as we were systematically inspected, chided, and humiliated, had a far worse effect than the actual hits.” The relationship between parent and child is so emotionally complex. Even in the face of violence and being the target of hatred, Cummings doesn’t shy away from the complexity of this relationship with his father and the need to be a good son in Not My Father’s Son, “My father continued to have affairs throughout my childhood, and they were not subtle or discreet.” “I understood that I had to collude, to protect my father, even though he didn’t deserve it.”

Not My Father’s Son is not just the story of Cummings’ relationship with his father, though it is devoted heavily to it. His mother was an integral part of the family and who he would become. For as much belittling as he experienced at the hands and words of his father, he also experienced true love and compassion from his mother, “She [mother] told me I was special and loved. And actually, having two such opposing messages, although confusing, was ultimately pretty healthy. My father told me I was worthless, my mother that I was precious. They couldn’t both be right, but they evened each other out and I began to make my own mind up, not just about myself but about everything that was going on around me.” 

Cummings is sensational at creating an emotionally grounded and tangled picture of growing up. For every person who has experienced violence or trauma, it is a revelation. I did not live his life in any way, but I could find my own story within his truths. Not My Father’s Son is the story of one man overcoming and living with a childhood that could have ruined him. Through the pain and the violence, Cummings shows grace. One of the most touching and human moments can be found in the acknowledgments when he thanks his father, “Thank you, Alex Cumming, for siring me and ensuring I will have lots of source material. I forgive you.” It is a beautiful memoir. 

Memorable Quotes
“It has not been pleasant as an adult to realize that dealing with my father’s violence was the beginning of my studies of acting.”
“Memory is so subjective. We all remember in a visceral, emotional way, and so even if we agree on the facts—what was said, what happened where and when—what we take away and store from a moment, what we feel about it, can vary radically.”
“For yes, being a woman, even one with a penis and for the purposes of drama, really made me feel that women have been coerced into a way of presenting themselves that is basically a form of bondage. Their shoes, their skirts, even their nails seem designed to stop them from being able to escape whilst at the same time drawing attention to their sexual and secondary sexual characteristics. And I think that has happened so that men feel they can ogle them and protect them in equal measure.”

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

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Title: Not My Father’s Son
Author: Alan Cumming
Publisher: Dey St. (William Morrow – HarperCollins)
Copyright: 2014
ISBN: 9780062225061

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

I Am A Servivor

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“Just another career-obsessed, nail-biting, manophobic, hell-bent feminist she-devil.”

I hate the title survivor

I’m not a victim. Not anymore. I was a victim when it was happening. But after…

There isn’t a word I’ve found to resonate with my broken pieces. And I’m a words-person. Silence. Nothing. Guilt. Solitude. Shame. Numb. Lost. Broken. They’re not titles I can put on a shirt or a sign to identify myself as one of many in a march. They are feelings. The feelings that have never left me from the moment his hands first touched me with violence in their intent. 

I never say, “I’m a survivor,” or “I survived.” I can’t. It feels like a lie. It would be a lie. I didn’t. I did not stand up as the same girl he held down. I didn’t survive. Rape is murder. He murdered who I was. Every time killed a part of me. 

The closest I’ve ever come to finding a way to describe myself is “raped,” but people don’t like that. If people have to face humanity’s ability for violence and destruction, they want to see someone strong and owning it or broken and hiding it. Survivor. How happy. How uplifting. What a positive spin on a tragic epidemic. It’s ignoring the actions that were survived. Focusing on the survivor having survived. Past tense. It happened. It’s done. Let it go. Move on. 

Survivor. It’s a bow to wrap up a present we don’t want to open. We know the gist of what happened. Some hazy sort of violence. No specifics needed; that one word says it all. It tears down the facade we’ve so diligently constructed, letting people in just enough for them to know there’s a dark past but not enough they actually know a damn thing. Survivor: say the word. People get a sad look in their eyes, “I’m so sorry.” But stop there. It’s a bow to wrap up the story people don’t want to hear. 

Ignoring the story, the nitty gritty of it, is its own kind of violence. 

Putting people at ease, letting them remain in their comfort zone is easy, kind. It does not facilitate change. If people are comfortable, they’re complacent. Change comes from agitation rooted in pain and suffering. I don’t write about this because it’s fun to dwell in the dark pain of someone’s choices to destroy my mind and undermine my identity. I write because I was raped. I was raped for years. I was beaten. I was abused. I was shared. I was torn. I was hurt. I write because too many people can say the same. Some say it. Many do not. Silence is a virtue. I don’t have that virtue. I had no voice for so long, but I have one now. I tell my story to make people uncomfortable. I tell my story because it is time for change. I tell my story because it has helped people, opened minds, changed minds, softened minds, and made people angry. I tell my story because I can. Many are not able to because of pain or circumstance or they’re no longer alive to tell theirs. I am still here. A broken, tired, angry, hurt version of who I used to be. I did not survive, but I am still here. 

I have been writing and blogging and processing in various ways for almost a decade. In college, I wrote under a pseudonym about being a stripper to pay for school and food and a roof not because I was ashamed but because I didn’t know what my future was uncertain. After college, I started a blog to talk about my life and how I struggle to pick up the pieces of my soul. A few years ago, I started …on the B.L., and it quickly grew into something real with a following. I haven’t kept my past or advocacy separate from this, but I haven’t focused on it either. It’s been present by quiet. But no more. This is the driving force behind everything I do. Creating change. My story, as painful as it is, keeps me going.

I hate the word survivor. I don’t feel like I survived. I feel like I just didn’t die; though, there were years I wished I had. I like the word servivor. I’m using my story to serve others by creating change in whatever way I can.  

I am a servivor

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I will stand tall. I will stand firm. I will tell my story. I will serve.