I don’t remember ever meeting Mary Lou, but I do recall the day that two of her six kids showed up at our house when Mom was gone for a couple of weeks and Kathleen was in charge of us children. The newcomers, technically my half-brother and half-sister, spoke little English, and I could see the fear and worry etched on their faces. I remember my mom taking us aside after returning home and instructing us to be kind to them because they no longer had a mother and they were separated from their older siblings. They lived with and were cared for by my mom from then on.
Even though we all had our own mothers, we were expected to obey all of the sister-wives. Teresa and Yolanda meant well, but if you got on their nerves —as children tend to do —they’d pick up any nearby object to administer a spanking. Their go-to items included a long-handled spoon, the back of a hairbrush, or even their shoe, which they’d remove in a pinch if we misbehaved or didn’t do what we were asked to do.
As always, my sisters and I spent hours washing dishes —plastic margarine tubs that served as our only bowls —and doing laundry, while Mom, Teresa, and Yolanda were working at the used appliance store. We took our time with the household chores we were assigned in the absence of the adults.
My life in Denver brought many challenges, but being separated from my mother was not one of them, so it seemed nearly perfect to me. I recall a few happy moments in the Xavier Street house, playing Monopoly and card games inside. In the backyard, we played tag or caught grasshoppers to see who could hold on to one the longest, squealing in horror as they wiggled around in our hands.
At night, we each spread our threadbare blanket on the living room floor and lapped half of it over ourselves to create a thin makeshift sleeping bag. As usual, I snuggled near Celia, thankful to be away from the large cockroaches we’d come to fear in Texas. We giggled and whispered about playing house and dreamt of having new dresses, all our own.
While in Denver, I first heard a phrase that I didn’t understand but didn’t dare ask about: “hot lead, cold steel, and a one-way ticket to hell.”
What I didn’t know then was that nearly two years later, hell would be unleashed right on our doorstep.
ON SEPTEMBER 23, 1977, I had just nodded off when the front door burst open and bright lights filled the room.
“FBI!” yelled several voices as half a dozen federal agents ran through the door.
Then a deep voice boomed, “Stay where you are, and show us your hands —slowly.”
From the blanket cocoon I shared with Celia, I enlarged a tiny hole and peeked out. A tall, lean, red-haired FBI agent was holding his arms out straight like sticks, gripping a gun in his hands. He continued shouting into the room, which was crowded with children who had been wakened abruptly. “Nobody move! And let me see those hands —now.”
Fortunately or unfortunately —depending on your perspective —I’d been taught how to react during an FBI raid. We were told that our dad had enemies who wanted him arrested, or worse, dead. We were taught that we were being persecuted because we were God’s chosen people. Knowing his enemies might tip off authorities as to his whereabouts, my dad instructed my mom and the other sister-wives about the importance of training all the children for this and other scenarios. They coached us to keep silent under all circumstances, and if for some reason authorities forced us to speak, our only answer would be, “I don’t know.”
I can recall first the adults and then our older siblings drilling us on this multiple times, acting out potential scenarios we might face with different types of law enforcement. Other kids our age played make-believe cops and robbers or cowboys and Indians. We did that, too, but we also played FBI agents and fugitives. The sad reality was that we weren’t playing —we were rehearsing for situations that could likely occur.
“What do you say if they ask you if you’re tired?” Arthur’s face pressed close to mine. He was the drill sergeant, and I was the new recruit.
“I don’t know.”
“Good. What do you say if they ask you if you’re hungry?”
“I don’t know.”
“Good. What do you —”
“But what if I am hungry?”
Arthur glared at me, then rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Listen, this isn’t rocket science. You never, ever tell them anything except ‘I don’t know.’ Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I bowed my head in shame for my stupidity and tucked away this thought for future drills: never ask questions.
“Those men are bad guys. They hate us for what we’re doing. Just because they don’t understand the Lord’s work, they think it’s okay to persecute us. But it’s not okay, is it?”
“N-n-n-no.” My lips quivered so much I could barely form the word, as I thought about the hateful FBI and their eagerness to hurt —even kill —my family.
“Just do what we tell you, and everything will be all right.”
The red-haired agent repeated his directive, his voice low and controlled this time. I didn’t show my hands or pull off the blanket, but I did sit up so I could better see the action through my peephole. I scooted closer to Celia, trying in vain to calm my fears. Red kept an eye on us kids, while the other agents fanned out through the house, some cautiously heading into the kitchen and others down the long hallway to the adults’ bedrooms. They moved stealthily and announced themselves before they opened any doors.
After a few minutes, they herded all the older kids and the mothers they had found into the cramped living room with the rest of us. We huddled together in silence while federal agents searched every inch of that house, both upstairs and downstairs. They dumped out cardboard boxes with our few articles of clothing in them. From the noises in the back of the house, I imagined they were doing the same in the bedrooms and bathrooms.
One of them shouted from the detached garage, “Hey, come get a load of this.”
Immediately, two agents disappeared, heading outside.
I could hear their muffled voices outside, deep and low. Moments later, they reappeared. A stocky man with a bald patch down the center of his head said, “I’ve been doing this for more than twenty years, and I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Agent Red, now more relaxed, with gun holstered, asked, “What’s that?”
“They probably have two hundred loaves of bread, donuts, and snack cakes stacked up in that garage.”
Red’s jaw dropped at that news, replying to Baldy as if we weren’t there at all, “With as many of them packed into this house, it probably won’t last long.”
While they poked fun at our family’s ways, I whispered to Celia, “I hope they leave soon. I wonder what they are looking for?” I felt an elbow in my ribs, a painful jab from one of my older siblings. I muffled a cry in protest.
“Shhh!” Red narrowed his eyes, looked in our direction, and walked over to us in a show of authority. I could see red bumps on his neck from razor stubble. I felt sure I was in trouble. But a moment later, he returned to his post near the front door.
Baldy set up a makeshift interrogation station at the kitchen table. The adults were questioned one by one. I strained to hear, but they spoke in hushed tones, and the activity of the other agents drowned them out. I knew my turn would come.