So it was the end of a really long day. I just wanted to go home and be annoyed by only two children instead of several hundred. As I was walking out the door, I noticed him sitting on the bench.
"Didn't your mom come yet?"
"No."
He is a handsome child, just 7. But you can tell he has been there, done that and will carry the heaviness of it for the rest of his life. Sweet-natured in spite of it all, loving, bright.
After much discussion and several phones calls to several non-working phone numbers, we decide it is very late-past dinner time by now- and the police have to be called.
I sat down next to him on the bench and pulled his slight frame over next to me. As I put my arm around him, the weight of what was coming next caused his head to drop and his shoulders to slump.
"Now, no one is in trouble, mom is probably just working late, but since we can't drive you home, we have to call the police."
He drew a deep breath and a single tear slid down his face and dropped on to my hand. It sent a ripple of anger, frustration, and fear through me-how could anybody hurt this amazing child beside me?
He never said a word. He put his head up, straightened his shoulders, gathered his stuff and went to stand by the door. When the police woman came to get him, he turned, gave me a small smile and waved the lollipop I had given him as a good bye. A second ripple shook me from head to toe~deep admiration for the little warrior as he walked out the door.
Showing posts with label abuse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label abuse. Show all posts
Monday, December 22, 2008
Friday, March 7, 2008
Sticks and Stones, B**ch!
**Thanks to Weekend Wordsmith
"Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me" How many times had she heard Mama remind her of that little bit of playground wisdom? How many times had she spoken or thought those words? Plenty! Growing up poor, smart, wearing glasses ...she had been called lots of things. But she never let them bother her. She had lots of self esteem and knew exactly who she was and where she was going. Until the day when she was 11 and the slimy dad next door noticed she had boobs. Then the world turned upside down and nothing was the same. She was still confident on the outside, still smart, but she began to doubt herself just a little bit. Withdrew just a little bit. Stop trying so hard just a little bit. Not so much as anyone would notice~but she knew. When she hit her teens, she began to notice that the kinds of boys who were drawn to her were the "dangerous" ones. She really deep down preferred the neat, tidy chess club~math club~debate team boys but the only ones who bothered were the "stoners". So to satisfy that little missing piece she now had, she glommed onto every tattooed, wanna-be biker within a stone's throw of the place and put up with the shit. The digs, the slurs. "Damn your hair is nappy-you sure you ain't part black?" from the skinhead. "You cain't tell me you forgot cigarettes again, you stupid bitch." from the carny guy who ran the merry-go-round at the park. This pattern continued through college, where frat boys were her self destructive weapon of choice. When one of them would start a drunken tirade, she would just think, "Sticks and Stones, Sticks and Stones" just like Mama taught her.
When she married, she thought she had found the mythological "Mr. Right". He was the "math geek" of her dreams. He was not hunky, but he was brilliant! He had invented some piece of medical equipment and it gave him the money to follow his passions. He gave her a great life. They had rich friends, a nice home, fun vacations. They talked about the past and how her own deficiencies had caused her to choose poorly and wasn't it great he had found her to pull her up and set her right. So he was a little uptight-after all the chaos of her younger life, the control he possessed was like being rescued from the Titanic. And for a while it was good. He designed computer games, then taught High School Math. After each experience, he would say "That's not really me. I need to do something else. I need to find "the THING". She completely understood~he was her "thing" and she had searched for him just as diligently as he searched for his passion. So she stroked and petted and let him moan and complain because she understood. Then one day he threw the vase because she had let the flowers wilt in it. A few weeks later, he kicked the cat when it got in his way. Followed days later by the punch to the wall that just missed her head. She tried to help, but he just called her "Bitch" or "Dumb ass" and she chanted "sticks and stones sticks and stones" in her head like a mantra.
Then the day came. She knew it was coming, but she couldn't get out of her own way. She just braced for it. He had left yet another job that "made him fell dead inside". She had figured out that yelling and throwing and name calling made him feel alive~stirred his juices~made him feel passion. So she let him and then cried as she cleaned his messes and tried to forget the mean things he said. But this day...he hit her. It was the first time, but she didn't feel as shocked as she should have. He needed a release and the usual stuff wasn't working. She stood there thinking, "Well, at least I saw it coming." Then he did it. The one thing she had always said she would never put up with~the line she would not allow to be crossed~the one word she could not chant out of her head. He screamed "CUNT" in her face as he drew back to hit her one more time.
It was automatic. She dropped into the kick boxing stance her personal trainer had taught her and let it fly. She took every bad decision, every nasty name, every degrading feeling and that hit that hurt more than her face and put it into a kick to the groin, followed by a punch to the nose. As he crumpled to the ground, he was not stunned by the physical assault. What made him lay still and pray it was over was the look on her face as she leaned close and whispered,
"Sticks and stones, bitch, sticks and stones."
"Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me" How many times had she heard Mama remind her of that little bit of playground wisdom? How many times had she spoken or thought those words? Plenty! Growing up poor, smart, wearing glasses ...she had been called lots of things. But she never let them bother her. She had lots of self esteem and knew exactly who she was and where she was going. Until the day when she was 11 and the slimy dad next door noticed she had boobs. Then the world turned upside down and nothing was the same. She was still confident on the outside, still smart, but she began to doubt herself just a little bit. Withdrew just a little bit. Stop trying so hard just a little bit. Not so much as anyone would notice~but she knew. When she hit her teens, she began to notice that the kinds of boys who were drawn to her were the "dangerous" ones. She really deep down preferred the neat, tidy chess club~math club~debate team boys but the only ones who bothered were the "stoners". So to satisfy that little missing piece she now had, she glommed onto every tattooed, wanna-be biker within a stone's throw of the place and put up with the shit. The digs, the slurs. "Damn your hair is nappy-you sure you ain't part black?" from the skinhead. "You cain't tell me you forgot cigarettes again, you stupid bitch." from the carny guy who ran the merry-go-round at the park. This pattern continued through college, where frat boys were her self destructive weapon of choice. When one of them would start a drunken tirade, she would just think, "Sticks and Stones, Sticks and Stones" just like Mama taught her.
When she married, she thought she had found the mythological "Mr. Right". He was the "math geek" of her dreams. He was not hunky, but he was brilliant! He had invented some piece of medical equipment and it gave him the money to follow his passions. He gave her a great life. They had rich friends, a nice home, fun vacations. They talked about the past and how her own deficiencies had caused her to choose poorly and wasn't it great he had found her to pull her up and set her right. So he was a little uptight-after all the chaos of her younger life, the control he possessed was like being rescued from the Titanic. And for a while it was good. He designed computer games, then taught High School Math. After each experience, he would say "That's not really me. I need to do something else. I need to find "the THING". She completely understood~he was her "thing" and she had searched for him just as diligently as he searched for his passion. So she stroked and petted and let him moan and complain because she understood. Then one day he threw the vase because she had let the flowers wilt in it. A few weeks later, he kicked the cat when it got in his way. Followed days later by the punch to the wall that just missed her head. She tried to help, but he just called her "Bitch" or "Dumb ass" and she chanted "sticks and stones sticks and stones" in her head like a mantra.
Then the day came. She knew it was coming, but she couldn't get out of her own way. She just braced for it. He had left yet another job that "made him fell dead inside". She had figured out that yelling and throwing and name calling made him feel alive~stirred his juices~made him feel passion. So she let him and then cried as she cleaned his messes and tried to forget the mean things he said. But this day...he hit her. It was the first time, but she didn't feel as shocked as she should have. He needed a release and the usual stuff wasn't working. She stood there thinking, "Well, at least I saw it coming." Then he did it. The one thing she had always said she would never put up with~the line she would not allow to be crossed~the one word she could not chant out of her head. He screamed "CUNT" in her face as he drew back to hit her one more time.
It was automatic. She dropped into the kick boxing stance her personal trainer had taught her and let it fly. She took every bad decision, every nasty name, every degrading feeling and that hit that hurt more than her face and put it into a kick to the groin, followed by a punch to the nose. As he crumpled to the ground, he was not stunned by the physical assault. What made him lay still and pray it was over was the look on her face as she leaned close and whispered,
"Sticks and stones, bitch, sticks and stones."
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