Communist? no.

I was born into a communist family. My father, christened an Anglican, converted to communism after serving in the second world war. He met my mother at a dance in Newcastle and she joined 'the party' too. The three of us kids were given 'welcome' parties instead of christening parties. The certificate card I still have reads "Welcome little comrade to this plot of troubled earth....."
Years later though my mum had us all baptised into the Anglican church. Even though she was brought up strict presbyterian she never returned to that line of worship, or back to communism.
That was another reason for the arguments in our home. He wanted her to stay a communist, and I think she did deep down, but without his passion. One of the main arguments in our house ever since I remember, was whether the Russian ideology was superior to the chinese version. My father believed in Russia, my mother, China. I grew to hate the word 'dogma' the phrase 'ruling party', capitalism, deliberate keeping of a Labour pool, fascists. Nothing else was talked about. We were indoctrinated to feel that all our ills were due to the ruling party and their need to manipulate poor people. Meantime we were screamed at, neglected, physically abused and I believe I was also sexually abused.
My father always vowed that he would go to Russia one day. Don't think he ever made it. We had been estranged for about eight years before he died.

We grew up poor. We could never want anything. All the toys in the shops were for other people, not us. Blame the country. Blame the system. Don't blame the parents. Most of my parents money was kept for themselves. They did not like spending on children.
I remember wanting something once and was asked by an uncle or my half-brother "How are you going to pay for it?"
As a child under ten, it was impossible for me to say how I could pay, nor did I realise that a more generous grown-up wouldn't think twice about buying a child something.
I was filthy, as in not washed, and neglected. My clothes were always dirty, crumpled, no clean or good underwear. We were fed but stood over to eat everything on our plates. In my parents' totally self-absorbed way they looked on their children as possessions. We had to behave in a certain way; be what they wanted us to be. Only they were never satisfied. No matter what I did, I could never please them. It was a case of what can we do for them, not what can they do for us?
I remember battling with my younger brother along the hallway, tray to tray, each of us with tea things trying to get to our mother's bedroom first to give her a cup of tea in bed. I think I may have pushed him and spilt his pot of tea, just so I could get ahead. Another cause of shame to me, the fact that I was bigger, and it was 'every man for himself' in our family. To be the smallest was a disadvantage.
My youngest brother only survived until he was thirty-three years old. He died schitzophrenic on the streets of Melbourne. His teeth were rotted, and from eating out of garbage bins he developed septocaemia, collapsed in an old man's shelter, was rushed to hospital but was unable to be saved. I rang the hospital and spoke to the doctor who had treated him. The Doc was very upset with me because he could't save my brother. So I couldn't get much information except that my brother was in an appalling state and how could anyone be allowed to deteriorate so severely?
I feel guilt and shame and confusion over the family dynamics that produced that death of my brother, and also a kind of bewiderment that I have transformed myself into a 'private school Mum' with highly successful, motivated offspring.