Was I that mistaken?
Deserving of such a brutal punishment for such an innocent mistake?
Before I delve into this post, I would like to start by
making two separate shout-outs:
The first goes to my girl Kaleef Starks (AKA Kaleef
Marcille) who is so strong, stylish, and brave in telling her story of how she
is transitioning into the beautiful woman that she is. She’s actually the
inspiration behind my blog, especially since I’ve always been working on my
autobiography and looking for an outlet to share it. I think it’s important I
give credit where it’s due, so if you’re interested in learning more about her
fabulous self, check out her tumblr and blog here: http://kaleefmarcille.tumblr.com/
and know-direction.blogspot.com
The second goes to one of my closest friends, Maribel, for
always supporting my work and promoting me in her very own blog: ihadyesterday.blogspot.com Thanks
for always being there for me! Check her out too!
Now, I want to begin this one on a positive note (or a few,
at that):
^^^So as you can see
in my recent Facebook posts above, I’m pretty darn happy and things are going
pretty good. But let me tell you, it was not always this way. . .
I feel like in all the talking I’ve done so far on this
blog, I’ve done a whole lot of telling
but not enough showing. Like any good
‘ole English teacher will tell you, in order to make any paper good (or
acceptable, really) you have to use imagery and describe your examples well,
grounding them in solid evidence. You can’t just make a bunch of claims and
have nothing to back them up. So it’s time I start providing you with the
substance.
Ladies and gentleman, like I said previously in my Gender
Studies course on Race, Class, Gender and Work before presenting my
autobiographical Johari Window Project, This
is where S*@% gets REAL.
They say you can only remember so
far back, like perhaps up until 3 years old. Some people even report
remembering things as far back as living in their mother’s uterus, but for me,
it’s definitely since the age of 3. The initial instances of child abuse I’ve
experienced were very violent and physical. From the very early age of 3 and
onward, I can remember my Grandmother Esther pushing, punching, and pinching me
along with the occasional cigarette butt she would die out on my arm or the
picking me up directly from the hairs on my scalp she used to do to carry me
around. I can remember her picking me up by the hairs on my head because I
would hide from her under the dinner table when I was very little, and she was
still strong enough herself to grab me by my unruly, thick, long, dark, curly
hair, carry me to the living room, and throw me on the floor. I can recall one
time where I was hiding under the table from her, and she found me, so I ran
away to the living room before she could get to me, and when she did, I hid
behind a puffy, blue rocking chair we had which swiveled around, thus making it
very convenient to use as a shield to protect me from her as I could just
swivel it away from her and use the front of it to block her. Well, when I did
that, I somehow got attached to the chair and couldn’t get up. I looked down to
realize that one of the metal rods which held the fabric down had penetrated my
knee and was stuck in my skin. I had to yank it out the way a person impaled by
an arrow or stabbed by a knife would, and when I did, the wound gushed out a
trail of blood that ran down my entire leg. I went to show my mother in the
bathroom and she just told me to clean it with soap and running water while
applying pressure to stop the bleeding. Yep, that’s about the kind of neglect I
faced. My own Grandma would chase me around the house and threaten me with her
fists while my own mother wouldn’t even take me to the hospital to stitch an
open wound gushing blood from my knee. I still have the scar on my right
kneecap to prove it. (And speak of the devil, my mother’s birthday just passed,
2/19, making her 66. Yep, she’s THAT old with only one kid she tortured, SMH)
I can remember the cigarette
burning especially because Grandma did it to me once when I was wearing my
favorite pair of shorts. I had to be 6 or 7 at the time, and I had a pair of
white and blue, silky short-shorts on that were made of light, luminescent
jersey fabric. They fit me well and were really comfortable, which made them
great for playing outside in. I just remember my Grandma calling me to get
something for her or to put some sheets away I was making a tent with, and when
I didn’t listen or politely turned her down, she smashed the lit cigarette into
my forearm, which caused the fiery ash to fall onto my shorts and burn a hole
through them. I had the shorts for many weeks after that until I grew out of
them, and I remember always looking at the black rimmed hole that left a trace
of my punishment, and I knew not to disobey Grandma ever again, until I was
older of course, and she was older herself and no longer a threat to me.
But one incident I remember very vividly has to do with my
mother and with The Letter “A”.
I was 5 years old. I hadn’t started school yet as my mom
didn’t allow me go to pre-school or kindergarten. I don’t know why, perhaps she
was just too lazy to enroll me, take me, or didn’t trust the teachers. Her
paranoia probably led her to believe everyone in those industries were
pedophiles or rapists who would “greatly endanger” me, as usual. (and as
everyone else in the neighborhood and world, go figure) But she decided to
home-school me instead, prep me for first grade, which was a living nightmare.
I think she’s the reason why I’m always too nervous to ask for help. I mean,
I’ve dealt with this problem several times in the past, and it’s receded much
in present days, thank God, but it was most likely caused by her. (as all of my
problems. Everything is her fault, what’s new?) It was horrible. I would try so
hard to write/draw my ABCs correctly, and I always made a lopsided A. It looked
pretty bad, I’ll admit it. It was never perfectly pointed and always ended up
looking like a falling bridge, an uneven arc that was misshapen and hopelessly
crooked, but everything else came out fine and I tried my hardest. I tried! But
it was never good enough for her! I would ask for her help and she would demand
I draw it again. Repeatedly, encouraging me to get it right. Her idea of
encouragement was a persistent “Do it again!”, first stated calmly and sweetly
until it eventually became a palpitating scream that rendered me inanimate.
(NOTE TO SELF: Yep, this is probably the reason I’m a perfectionist
nowadays) I kept trying, and kept
struggling, and kept failing, and instead of supporting me and letting me move
on, or even acknowledging how nice my other letters were (or even
congratulating me for trying so hard and doing a good job), she just leapt into
my face and yelled at me. The pores on her nose and cheeks enlarging, her skin
becoming flushed red with profound anger, her lips protruding so harshly to
shape every, single word and belching out drops of spit to spray all over mine.
It was horrendous. I was so frightened. All I wanted was some help so that I
could perfectly draw the letter A. But it was never good enough, ever. I tried
so hard. I remember shifting the pencil between my fingers to attempt different
techniques. “Maybe I would get it right this time. Maybe if I hold it this way,
it would work better,” I remember thinking to myself. But she was never
satisfied. Her level of irritation just kept elevating even higher and higher
until it became gushing out like broken water pipes bursting and her temper
exploded into fits of slapping my cheeks repeatedly and pinching thick grasps
of my skin. I was thoroughly traumatized.
I practiced
every day. I still wanted to draw the perfect
A. “She would see it and be so proud of me!” I think I spent hours
re-writing it, erasing it, and writing it again until my method was perfected
and my written alphabet looked flawless. I was so happy! I had finally
replicated the “perfect A”! “Mommy would be so happy! All I have to do is find
some paper,” I thought to myself. I looked all around until I found an
envelope. My mother was always into doing those stupid mailing scams. Like
Publishing’s Clearing House Sweepstakes, Australian “lotteries”, “Work-In Home”
applications, you know, pyramid scheme type establishments because she was
gullible enough (and dumb enough) to believe them. I think I actually
comprehended this at that age, but I didn’t consider it because I was so
relieved to have finally discovered the way to make the perfect A and I wanted
to show her! I was so eager. I took the envelope because it was the first piece
of paper I saw and wrote down my entire alphabet with that “perfect A” I was so
proud of. I overheard her talking with Uncle Frank in the next room and jumped
to run over to her. I begged and begged her to look, trying to get one minute
of her attention. I must have called out “mommy” a hundred times until she
looked down to notice the line of ABC’s written crookedly on her precious
envelope. She looked down in contempt, driven with rage and snatched the
envelope from my hand. My smile turned into a flustered frown and she began
viciously slapping me, recurrently. I felt like each word she uttered came out
individually, unattached to the others. “YOU. STUPID. LITTLE. IGNORANT. PIECE.
OF. SHIT! HOW. COULD. YOU. DESTROY. THIS. ENVELOPE. FOR. MY. WORK. AT. HOME.
POSITION? THIS. WAS. MINE. AND. YOUR. UNCLE’S. ONLY. HOPE. FOR. AN. INCOME.
YOU. STUPID. LITTLE. FUCKING. BITCH. HOW. COULD. YOU?” Every word followed by a slap to the cheek. I
felt my face redden as the blood forcefully flowed to the pigments of my cheeks
and they swelled as my eyes did with tears. I was so confused. I didn’t know I had done anything wrong! I didn’t
mean to! I just wanted to show her
the beautiful letters I worked so hard to write! To make her proud of my improvement! To make her proud of my effort! She slapped the shit
out of me, and I stayed there, perplexed and shocked. At disbelief of what she
had just done to me. I was scared out of my wits and after being stunned for a
minute, I ran away to the old, musky roll up bed she kept for my father and
cried myself to sleep. I don’t know if my gauge of time was accurate as a kid,
but it felt like I cried for hours before I fell asleep. I just felt so hurt
that she would jump at me like that. That she would become so angry over a
stupid envelope when I didn’t mean to ruin anything for her and just wanted to
show her what I worked so hard on. I just lied there, face smushed into the
dirty, brown, itchy, coarse fabric that was bound into a bundle on the carpet.
I dug my face into it, red and wet from my tears that it soaked, and cried
until I fell asleep. I remember feeling so bad. I blamed myself for it! I was beating myself up about it. I kept
thinking, “I should have waited until she wasn’t busy with Uncle! I should have
gotten a different piece of paper! I’m so stupid!” Perhaps my actual thoughts
weren’t so concise, predictable, or grammatically correct, but that was the
idea of what I thought. I didn’t at all consider her actions to be unwarranted.
I thought I deserved what I had
gotten. How horrible is that? And
sadly, readers, this is quite common. This is what little kids all around the
world, as I once was, think when they get abused a majority of the time. They
blame themselves and internalize it as if they deserved it. Sad, but true. It’s
a sick case of Stockholm syndrome and the way we interpret reality.
According to ethnomethodologists
Mehan and Wood[1], there are five features
of reality, which include reflexivity, coherence, interaction, fragility, and
permeability. I’m not going to go on a long spiel and give you an entire
Sociology lesson, but the essential point is that our notion of reality exists
with incorrigible propositions which are reflexive. This means that we have
certain beliefs that are set in stone and everything we perceive in the world
is used to build the foundation for these beliefs and prove they are true.
However, if we interact with others or come into contact with counterevidence,
our entire belief system can collapse and become rebuilt for potential change.
Like Karren Warren argues, “severe abuse in the family continues because the
family members learn to regard it ‘normal.’ A victim of abuse may come to see
that her abuse is not ‘normal’ when she has contact with less abusive
families.” (Smith, 17)[2]
This is why so many young children are fooled into thinking that their parents’
extreme disciplinary actions are acceptable and that they are at fault for the
dysfunctional behaviors of their family. Especially since they are so young,
their judgment is very clouded. Until they grow older, mature, and interact
with other people outside of their home, they will continue to blame themselves
for the abuse their parents dole out onto them. And just like every other kid
who deals with a messed up family, it took me years to realize mine was nowhere
near “normal.”
So folks,
this is just the beginning of it all. There is much more to come, but I think
that’s enough depressing stuff for now.
[1]
O'Brien, Jodi, Hugh Mehan, and Houston Wood. "Five Features of
Reality." The production of reality: essays and readings on social
interaction. 5th ed. Thousand Oaks, Calif.: Pine Forge Press, 2006. 379-395.
Print.
[2] Smith, Andrea.
"Sexual Violence as a Tool of Genocide." Conquest: sexual violence
and American Indian genocide. Cambridge, MA: South End Press, 2005. 7-33.
Print.
To lift the mood, I’ll leave this little gem of a pharmacy mishap for laughs. It’s hilarious!
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