My Name Is Shame

The Loss of Identity & Worth

By Thomas J. Koester

Hello, my name is Shame.

Well, this is what I thought my name was—not because my mom and dad called me Shame, but somehow, in their inflection—when they used my real name—shame is what I had felt. Shame is my earliest memory—which, believe it or not, I was only eighteen months old!

In the spring of 1961, I was a toddler, sitting on my highchair in Paramus, New Jersey, about to eat my very first peanut butter sandwich. My mom had skillfully cut the crust away and segmented my sandwich into four small squares. I remember staring at the plate mom placed on my stainless steel highchair tray. I guess I’m supposed to eat it, so I curiously picked up a square, oozing with peanut butter, and touched it to my lips and tongue. My immediate reaction was to curl my mouth and retract my tongue in disgust while drooling the pasty peanut butter from my mouth to my chin.

Without provocation, my mom grabbed the sandwich square, mauled it into a ball, grabbing my chubby cheeks so hard it forced my mouth to open. She then, with an angry face, tightly gritted teeth, she began shoving the sandwich into my little and nearly toothless mouth, pushing so hard it caused me to choke, gasping for air! Suddenly, my gag reflex kicked in, and I threw up milk and whatever else made it to my stomach all over the highchair tray!

Suddenly, and shockingly, my mom slapped me so hard, me and the highchair nearly tipped over! For what seemed like minutes, or at least until my breath came back into my tiny lungs, I let out a blood curdling scream! While being confused and terrified, my mother slapped me again for crying. To this day, I still hate peanut butter sandwiches.

As an eighteen-month old toddler, I couldn’t process that event in any other way than to conclude something is terribly wrong with me. And this is what shame does; It robs you of your identity and lessens your self-worth. You don’t even know it’s happening, especially if you’re raised in a house of shame.

I have so many of these kinds of memories that it could easily fill an entire book! I will, however, share one more childhood memory of shame for context.

Don’t Pee Outside!

One summer day when I was a normal seven year old boy, one of my siblings tattled on me, reporting to mom:

“Tommy peed outside!”

My mom quickly called me inside to the kitchen, where she did most of her interrogations;

“Did you pee outside?”

—Sitting across the table was my mom’s best friend, Gloria Martin—

With fear and trepidation, I cautiously nodded my head, yes.  My mom’s angry face was enough for me to repent, but by seven, I had learned that this was the precursor to shame and abuse.

My mother reached towards the left side of our kitchen table and grabbed a small pair of curved pedicure scissors. Simultaneously, she commanded me to pull down my pants. She then yanked down my underwear, exposing my penis in front of Mrs. Martin.

Mother grabs my penis, stretching it out, and with the scissors in her left-hand proceeds, or at least convinced me she was going to cut it off! I was brutally shamed and abused. Although, as a seven year old little boy, my faculty of reason was undeveloped. I could only interpret the abuse and shame that something is incurably wrong with me. That, and hundreds of days like it, might be the reason my name, Tommy, Tom, or Thomas, was replaced with the name, Shame.

I think chronically shaming a person is similar to murder. I’m not a forensic pathologist nor a psychologist, but isn’t murder when you premeditatedly end the life of a human being? Shame kills identity and destroys self-worth. Shame replaces the spark of life and light with darkness and a desire to cease living.

Several years ago, I was investigating a burned out office building in Berkeley, California. Everything was darkly sooted and smelled heavily of smoke and ash. I was there to measure the fire and smoke damage for an insurance company. As I was photographing each room, I entered one office that had several floor to ceiling shelves filled with books. All the books were heavily sooted and many soaked with water by the fire department. Except, one book, which stuck out a bit. Puzzled as to why this book was so clean, I pulled the book from the shelf.  On the cover was a mother sitting on a chair with two small murdered children under one arm and a knife in her other hand. The title of the book:

“Soul Murder – Child Abuse and Deprivation”  By  LL Shengold – 1989

Needles to say, I had to read it!

To summarize the book a bit:

“Soul murder involves the deliberate traumatization or deprivation by an authority (parent) of his charge (child). The victim is robbed of his identity and of the ability to maintain authentic feelings. Soul murder remains effective if the capacity to think and to know has been sufficiently interfered with—by way of brainwashing – Paradoxically, in order to survive and adjust, some of these people so traumatized as children develop unusual strengths and gifts.”

While this book is highly clinical, I began to unravel and understand what eighteen years living in a house of shame and abuse did to me. Tommy, Tom, or Thomas was soul murdered and the imposter, named Shame had taken his place.

This is not a hopeless story. Yes, it had been a story of physical and psychological abuse and years of despair and deprivation. But my story is actually very much hope-filled. I hope the telling of my story may be the catalyst for you, too, to find hope and healing.

My Safe House

Almost every spy thriller or story of espionage has a safe house. Well, at ten years old, I had my safe house, too. Only, it’s not the safe house of spy movies, filled with firearms, passports, and bags of currency. Nope, my safe house was church!

Church was the only place my mother couldn’t hurt me—even if she was within a swift and accurate backhand to my face, she wouldn’t dare strike me. I learned that Church was not only a safe place for an abused little boy but also a safe place for fake and phony people, like my mommy dearest. Churches rarely will preach, if at all, against child abuse within the home. I think partly because far too many pastors abuse their own families for the sake of “ministry.”

One thing you learn in a shamed-based family is that sometimes moms or both parents will use their children as props. For some children, like me, being a “prop” can destroy your sense of “me” to where you are nothing more than an image or an appendage of your mother. If it sounds incestuous, then you’re correct because it is. It doesn’t have to be sexual in nature to be incestuous. For me, it meant that I, along with my siblings, were used for our mother’s psychological and physical pleasure. We were all adornments that added to our mother’s glittering image. We were less than human. We were little shame-bots who obeyed our mother’s abusive shaming tactics.

There was no greater day of the week for my mother to excel in her fakery than on Sunday. Sunday was my mother’s morning masquerade! She would dress us five boys with button-down shirts, ties, sports coats, spit-polished wingtip shoes, and our hair plastered perfectly with Dippity-doo hair gel of the Sixties and Seventies! My little and only sister was dressed like Shirley Temple! Boy, but we were a real hit in Church! We looked, and, albeit forcibly so, played our parts as the “perfect Christian family” like trained little monkeys!

The fake “perfect Christian family” persona only hid the shame and abuse of all six of us siblings. While Church was my safe house, just like safe houses in spy thrillers, sooner or later, the bad guys crash it. Somehow, my mommy dearest found a way of shaming me in Church with a look that said, “wait till I get you home!”

My New Name

With the name, Shame, so indelibly written into my psyche, a name and identity change were impossible for me. Even though I became a Christian at my safe house, Bethany Baptist Church in Martinez, California, nothing changed in the Koester House of Shame.

I want you to understand that it’s not the house of shame in a family or church that needs to change. We do. Yes, some churches can become a house of shame also. After all, churches are made up of families, too, and ideally, are to become one healthy family. However, like dysfunctional and shamed-based families, sadly, some churches and religious organizations can also be shame-based. You should remove yourself from a shamed-based family and church in order to get healthy.

When you get healthy and free from a shame-based culture, family, or church, you will make healthier decisions, and you’ll see more clearly. Clearly enough to walk with God and maybe a godly counselor and begin the healing process.

My New Life

As I began to grow in my faith and reading of Scripture, I learned that my real worth and identity come from my Creator, God. In spite of what many people believe, God is not the “great shamer” in the sky. He’s not abusive or unjust. When Jesus of Nazareth began his public ministry, he walked into a synagogue, opened up a scroll handed to him, and read the following from the Prophet Isaiah:

“The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me because the LORD has anointed me; he has sent me to preach good tidings unto those who are cast down; to bind up the wounds of the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those that are bound; to proclaim the year of the LORD’s favor, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all that mourn; to order in Zion those that mourn, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of despair.”

When I first read this, light came bursting into my darkened prison cell of shame! You see, Church is not an end to a means, but the means to an end of shame and abuse. Church is where I met the God of my Salvation and the Healer of my murdered soul! A good and healthy Church not only preaches the Gospel (“Gospel” is a Greek word used in the Bible, which means “Good News”). But a healthy church is a fellowship and family of broken people becoming whole together. It’s not a recovery group, per se; it’s a group of humble people living a restored and recovered life! Jesus himself promised that if we believe him, we will have life:

“The thief’s purpose is to steal, kill, and destroy. My purpose is to give life in all its fullness.” –John 10:10

“Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.” –John 11:25

Do you see how this is such good news to a broken, abused, and shamed little boy, as me?

God took away the imposter’s name of Shame and bestowed a new name upon me; I am God’s restored and Beloved Son! He healed my broken heart, set me free from captivity, opened my prison doors of shame and despair, and resurrected my murdered soul! My identity and worth is better than restored—I’m a new creation—fully pardoned for all my sins and clothed in Jesus’s righteousness. I’m no longer dressed to impress my mother, her peers, or her friends.

I AM FREE!

My name is Thomas James Koester

Shame no longer lives here!