Fists and Blood

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Memories come and go at their own whim, they don't care about timelines, they come when they are called - by triggers, smells, sights, sounds, other memories. Thus, my blog is starting to follow some winding ribbon in the space-time continuum. I hope this does not confuse anyone. Some of the memories that I would like to talk about are not mine to tell. They are memories that happened to others in my family and did not directly impact me, and so they will remain untold, however tragic - but never fear, I have a list, and I will be able to keep my promise. 30 tragedies. A tragedy a day for 30 days. What happens after that, I cannot say. Maybe my light will be extinguished. . . will I go peaceably, or will I leave this life kicking and screaming; life punching me in the ribs until I cough up blood and give up my last breath?

My mother is prolific, in every aspect of life. She thrives in even the bleakest of times, and has an aura about her that attracts people - makes them love and admire her. It wasn't long after my father left that my mother had suitors, and a few years later she was re-married, and expecting another mouth to feed.

My step father was from another country, but had been in America for many years. He was regimented. While he lived with us he reigned and expected total compliance. He was the king and the rest of us were peasants and his word was supposed to be taken even above my mother's. He often liked to quote the Honeymooner's; some of you may even recognize the previous peasant quote from an episode. Bang-Zoom, to the moon Alice, to the moon.

I never liked him. Firstly, I still had men issues from the whole episode with my father. Secondly, I was suspicious of him, probably because of things that happened to me which I will discuss in my last blog. Thirdly, in my mind, no one came before my mother. There was nothing I liked about him; I didn't like his accent because I couldn't understand him, I didn't like the fact that he had no problem walking around me in his underwear, I didn't like his demanding ways, I didn't like the way my mother kowtowed to him. . . I could go on and on.

Once, when I was doing my chore of cleaning the kitchen, he watched over me. As I scrubbed the oven he told me to take it apart and clean each individual piece. I rolled my eyes and continued to scrub; I must have been about 12. He grabbed me by my arm, took off his belt and beat me until I bled. When my mother arrived home, I was on the floor in a corner crying. I didn't hear her stand up for me, although years later she said she had a talk with him at the time. All of my complaints about my step father went unheeded. The under wear thing, which I thought was inappropriate, and the way he talked to my mother. The way he degraded her. He liked to have sex with her with the door of their bedroom open, allowing my brothers and I to have access to visuals and audios that disturb me to this day, so I guess what happened next should not have been a surprise.

One night, there was a shriek. I reluctantly came out of my room to see blood smeared on the white walls, and my mother and step father struggling; my mother caught in his grasp while he was punching her in the gut. She tried to fight back but he was too strong. My mother was yelling for me to call 911, my brothers slowly drifting out of sleep to come see what the matter was. As I approached the phone, my trembling hand reaching out for the cradle on the wall, my step father yanked it out of the wall breaking the cord. My mother then pleaded for me to go to a neighbor’s house. As I ran to the door, my step father followed me, my mother in tow being shuffled along. He tried to block the door, but my mother mustered enough strength to open the door enough for me to squeeze out. I ran, for what seemed like forever. When I reached the neighbor, she called the police. We went back to my house together. When we arrived he had already left.

My mother explained that while my step father was at work she became curious about a briefcase he kept in a closet. It was always locked and he warned her to stay away from it. This particular day, a nagging feeling inside led her to break into the briefcase. What she found were pictures of children, birth certificates, and letters. He was married to another woman in his home country and they had 8 children together. Her marriage was a farce. When he came home she confronted him, they argued, and he hit her with a statue. That's when I woke up.

You might think that this would be the end of the story, but shortly after the police left, my neighbor lined up my brothers and me. She made us stand and face her as she degraded us for not fighting my step father to help my mother. She told us how ashamed we should be of ourselves. She told us we were bad children, and we believed her.

Tomorrow, Moving On. . .