When I was a little girl, we lived on Westover Air Force Base. It doesn't exist anymore as a military base, but at the time, it was a thriving place. The Vietnam Conflict was in full swing and Westover was home to a large number of B-52s, many of which were sent over to Asia to participate in the war.
For any of you who aren't familiar with military bases, they are like little cities. They have a hospital, a grocery store, a department store, a movie theater, a gym and often a gas station. There is also housing for single people, visiting people and families. The family housing is divided into areas. The enlisted families live in one area, the lower ranking officers in another and the big-wigs in a more exclusive place.
At the time of our living on this particular base, we lived amongst the lower ranking officers. We had a nice little three bedroom home that was part of a duplex. All of the homes backed up to a common area where kids could play safely surrounded by homes. Our place had a white picket fence around a side yard where I had a sandbox. I also remember a great climbing tree that was either in our yard or just beyond in the commons. Although I was a preschooler, I spent plenty of time in that tree. In fact, there was never another tree in my life that was so much fun.
I had a bedroom adjacent to my parents' room. There was a living/dining room next and then a third, smaller bedroom down a short hallway. Our kitchen was a galley type with a small eating area by the backdoor. My mom had a very small drop leaf table that she set up there for breakfasts.
In my room, I had a ¾ sized bed with the head against an outside wall, a dresser, a little table and chair set, a large toy box and a mirror. The mirror was hung on an inside wall opposite the only window. I spent lots of time in front of the mirror, playing dress up, chatting to myself, preening, but after a while, I wouldn't look at it at night. In fact, for a short while, Mom would have to rush into my room because I would start screaming about the devil being in the mirror. Mom would come into the room, look around, reassure me that everything was okay and then leave the room again, shaking her head, wondering what on earth had caused my outburst. This happened regularly over a period of time. Then I stopped having my panicked episodes and forgot all about it.
But there was a change. I stayed away from mirrors unless there was a wall opposite it. I remember rushing through rooms where Mom had hung antique mirrors, avoiding looking in that direction if I was alone. I shut the door and opened the shower curtain if I were looking in the bathroom mirror. Everywhere we moved, I unconsciously avoided mirrors and I made sure every window was covered at night. I didn't even notice that I did it until we moved to Arizona when I was a teenager. Our new house had a ridiculously huge picture window across the front of our living room. The house was a split level, so the living room was raised off the ground level. I used to joke with my parents that we had to shut the window or else we would be on stage for the rest of the neighborhood. Faithfully, I would shut that window as soon as the sun went down.
Fast forward a few decades. I was married and had a home of my own. I had no mirrors on any walls except those required in bathrooms. Every window had thick blinds as well as curtains. My parents were visiting and watching me go through my routine of shutting all of the blinds when Mom told me the rest of the story. Apparently a week or so after my screaming outbursts ended, back when I was three or four years old, she read in the base paper about a Peeping Tom who had been caught looking into windows in our neighborhood. There was a picture of a black man who had been arrested. She then realized that he had been looking in my window and his face had reflected in my mirror. Sitting in my bed, facing the mirror, I had been able to see just his dark face watching me, terrorizing me.
All these years later, even knowing the why behind my behavior, I haven't changed. Even writing this creeps me out a little. It makes me wonder, too. With a degree in psychology, I know how Peeping Toms often progress toward physical acts of violence. I wonder if the man who so affected my life without touching me went on to reform or if, without help, he ended up hurting more people, affecting other little girls in unspeakable ways. I think I am glad I don't know.