My father hit my mother.
it such a matter of fact phrase isn't it? and yet something that would almost bear not being noticed when I say it. Of course, there is the customary impotent rage that flashes across your eyes when the words hit home; and a minute -ten minutes? of upset are your reward for paying attention. I waver between acceptance of grim reality and a rage that makes bile rise in my throat, and despair that makes moments of reflection a life rending ordeal.
My father hit my mother.
I say it in reflection on her life, a candle snuffed nigh two decades now, and I feel a weariness...a resignation...it is fact, and regardless of emotional evocations, it is unchangeable past.
One my earliest memories is of her being hit.
We had just moved out of the back room of my grandmother's house, to all the way across the street (I was utterly adamant I still lived at number 13: I had developed an outright hatred of number 12, even though my best friend at the time, Marque and I now lived in the same yard). it was spacious: I now had my own room at all of 4 I think, and my sister slept with my parents; this little creature that cried at all hours and never seemed to smile at me (I am surprised I remember not only such musings, but the detail of my living arrangements). I was to be bathed that evening, and in one of my apparently few moments of true difficulty, I refused to be bathed and had hid myself. my father, home from his workshop, came into my room, saw that my mother had indulged me my rebellion then asked why I was not yet ready for bed...they stepped into what should have been the living room, but was a home workshop, and I, jumping to observe through a cracked door, saw him hit her...and the dull thud of his open backhand against her inspired in me a hatred and fear that was nurtured with time.
I do not remember intervening
I recall going to comfort her, feeling afraid for her (My father was never shy to hit me, and I accepted that with what logic I was taught: boys got hit, but you should never hit or kick girls, even if they did it first or you're playing a hitting game). My fear was that she was more hurt than I was when I got "beating," and what's more, that he would come back and see her crying and give her "sumn to cry 'bout" (in this then new world where girls, indeed big women got licks surely they got the same "shut up and tough up" speech, right?). far from consoled, she got very frightened and sadder on seeing me finding her this way, and I was sent right to bed, with the promise we would go visit grandma Goya for a mango and pencil. my attention and cooperation easily bought, I was off to bed before our exchange was seen by him.
I took the blame for that incident wholly
I was a very observant child, who was known to move suddenly from wild untamed exuberance typical to my age group, to a sombre quiet stillness as I made sense of the world. I remember sitting and reading some violently coloured childhood tome and stopping to realise that if I had not been willful, had not resisted to taking my evening bath, she would not have been hit, would not be blamed. this slowly became "she took my beating." to me. in my upset at her taking my punishment, I went and remembered asking her why she took my lick...I remembered that sad smile, but to this day do not remember if she had ever answered me with words.
My mother had a light but rich alto voice
So at odds with everything above as to seem tangential? my mind moves in enigmatic circles. My mother was a great singer of hymns and lullabies. she was on the church choir (we were full Gospel baptists) which rarely sang more than two part harmony (with occasional "bass"-never tenor- when a singer's husband would grace the rostrum), but relished reprising those pieces that would make fire shoot up your bones with excitement at the thought of heaven, or fear at the thought of damnation. To my memory she was always ready to sing, and her "choir book" (funnily it was branded a "Quire book" and so for years I thought "Quire" was what she sang in) ever handy to reference as she sang beloved hymns spirituals and gospel songs, from sheets written in her loopy, neat hand.
My mother was a bullied woman
Between my father and the choir mistress (who inspired abject terror in me and seemed to hold the same sway over my mother), my mother did not really catch a break. My father's mother, who lived across the street seemed taken with her, but this was the woman for whom the sun rose and set with her son, and now that his wife had produced a miniature replica of him, how could she not fold this woman to herself welcome her with open arms?
-I should not allow myself such reflections, but often I return there, and I am reminded why I intensely disliked my reflection or close to 10 years.
My mother was a mischief maker
she would get this twinkle in her eye, and a smile that said something was up before some prank or other would then be played, some joke shared or some surprise given. I remember and am told the stories of how her sister, my aunt Janet would visit and the house would be turned upside down in the merriment, and they reverted for a time to children, surprised they had grown up and proud yet awed at the bodies they now inhabited; bodies that (in my mother's case) could and have borne children to term, even as they were still acclimatizing to their states of maturity. I beam when I remember after her passing I would be accused of having that same glint of humourous mischief, though in much less supply than my younger sister, who if anything, is the self imprint of her mother on this world.
For a year after her passing I felt abandoned
You would think that I would find the first line of this post more painful to write...but in actuality, that line above was...even as I typed it I erased those nine words more than thrice...and my reason is...complicatedly simple.
To say that, in the face of care and support my family gave in that year or upheaval seems petty and selfish, so very thoughtless and even cruel to all their kindness.
But feelings do not always coincide with logical thought.
It was never the case that I was ungrateful for their care and concern, I am still moved that they took me in...my feeling of abandonment stemmed in the absence of my sister and father for that period...I was told later in life that I chose to not live with him, that I chose to separate from his side of my family in that intervening year...and I find the notion that this could have been interpreted as best for me very disappointing in my father, who I try to forgive his choices given his youth, and me my fear of him despite then logic being on my side...for a year I had very distinct thoughts my simple mind cycled through:
-My father did not want me
-My family blames him for my mother's death
-My family (at least the matriarchs)knew the full extent of what took place in our home and did very little.
-I was just like my father and hence was doomed to become a fear inspiring aggressive bully
-Auntie Norma and her children were nothing at all like my grandmother, and their love lacked the softness I was used to, but was the environment I may have needed to cope with all that I had stewing internally
My family treated her death and trials very openly, discussing details with me that I was in retrospect, too young to know, despite having maturity enough to appreciate it.
Why did I share this?
I do not know that I ever intended to share this bit of mental rumination, and I can say it was not asked of me... but I felt like having it inside and not exorcised eats at some small part of my being in a very real way, and fosters dark thoughts even as I am learning to let more light in.
So I guess this post, if anything, made me a little lighter, and hopefully you a little less mystified at those thoughts I fall into when I grow silent.
the years have taught much, and more things occupy my silence now, vying for the fore of my mind. maybe one day I won't feel the panic at being asked "tell me what you're thinking" at family gatherings or in groups where the mask isn't enough to discourage inquiry. Until then, if you've read this far, thank you for "listening"... if not, well, to anyone who has, I am honoured you deigned read.
