the time I made it to our front door. All out of breath and shit!
My youngest sister, Tammy, was sitting out front on a bench that sat alongside the house, watching my two-year-old brother toddling around on the ground. She barely gave me a glance as I stood there, breathing hard but trying not to show it. My oldest sister, Toby, came riding up on her bicycle, hopped off, and went inside the front door. I waited until I heard her footsteps fade away up the stairs and then I began to plot on her bike, laying there where she had let it fall. Toby’s bicycle was one of those girl’s bikes; no metal bar for me to fall on and hurt my undeveloped manhood. I was so small that I couldn’t reach the pedals while I was sitting on the seat, so the absence of that metal bar was crucial. The missing tube created a gap that allowed me to pedal the bike while I was standing up and I triumphantly rode around and around in circles on the sidewalk. Boy! I can’t wait till I’m big enough to ride a boy’s bike! This delicious thought pedaled around in my head as I rode and turned on the bicycle.
The sound of breaking glass messed up my flow. I looked up in time to see my lucky horseshoe, the one I had won at school, come flying out of the window. It landed right in the middle of the street. The next thing I heard was my father’s voice. He was drunk. Know how I know? He was always drunk!
“How you bring a bastard up in my house!”
It was a statement. My statement. My stepfather’s description of me. When he was drunk, it was his only description of me. I wouldn’t say that I hate him. There has got to be a better word for my feelings than “hate.” Yet, he found his hatred of me became intensified when it was mixed with vodka. He was a big man… compared to me. He was a smart man… compared to me. He was a man… compared to me. To me, he was the evil that turned off every emotion I ever had, every feeling, the devil who endangered my very sanity and killed the childhood part of my life. He rampaged on my teenage years, that time of life when relationships develop, some in the most intimate of ways, where bits and pieces of yourself are defined by the company you keep, the friends that you make. The years when life is sweet and carefree… not just painful day-to-day hell. My father did that. My daddy.
He wasn’t my real daddy, though. He was only my stepfather but what’s the difference… especially if you don’t know who your real daddy is anyway.
I fucking hate him. Yeah. That fits better.
I remember the first time he hit me. He tried to punch me with a manpunch, a hard man-punch, straight to my face. I was way too small to take that blow and I could see that shit comin’. I ducked away enough, but not all the way enough, and his knuckle caught me right in the eye. Shit! That shit hurt! My eye was all swollen and shit.
Maaannnn! I can’t wait till I get big!
I had gone back to turning circles on the sidewalk, losing myself in the endless ‘O’s when I heard his voice again. “Woman! I will fuck you up!”
“WHY?!” my mother screamed.
“Stupid shit! You better—”
“So, why then?! Why you hit me?!”
“’Cause, Woman…”
For a long second, there was silence, and then the unmistakable sound of a hard, solid fist hitting soft, pliable flesh. Plappp! I paused to look up for an instant—knowing my black-ass stepfather was beatin’ on my mother again. But I messed up when I took my eyes off the sidewalk. The bike swerved and I veered off the curb. To this day, I still don’t know how it all happened. Next thing I know, I’m rolling down Front Street, down the steepest hill I had ever seen in my life. I didn’t panic; not in my recollection. I really don’t remember panicking. I remember looking down toward the bottom of that hill and seeing the houses come rushing by me. I remember seeing there weren’t any cars in my lane, but I do recall a few cars coming toward me in the opposite lane. The
My youngest sister, Tammy, was sitting out front on a bench that sat alongside the house, watching my two-year-old brother toddling around on the ground. She barely gave me a glance as I stood there, breathing hard but trying not to show it. My oldest sister, Toby, came riding up on her bicycle, hopped off, and went inside the front door. I waited until I heard her footsteps fade away up the stairs and then I began to plot on her bike, laying there where she had let it fall. Toby’s bicycle was one of those girl’s bikes; no metal bar for me to fall on and hurt my undeveloped manhood. I was so small that I couldn’t reach the pedals while I was sitting on the seat, so the absence of that metal bar was crucial. The missing tube created a gap that allowed me to pedal the bike while I was standing up and I triumphantly rode around and around in circles on the sidewalk. Boy! I can’t wait till I’m big enough to ride a boy’s bike! This delicious thought pedaled around in my head as I rode and turned on the bicycle.
The sound of breaking glass messed up my flow. I looked up in time to see my lucky horseshoe, the one I had won at school, come flying out of the window. It landed right in the middle of the street. The next thing I heard was my father’s voice. He was drunk. Know how I know? He was always drunk!
“How you bring a bastard up in my house!”
It was a statement. My statement. My stepfather’s description of me. When he was drunk, it was his only description of me. I wouldn’t say that I hate him. There has got to be a better word for my feelings than “hate.” Yet, he found his hatred of me became intensified when it was mixed with vodka. He was a big man… compared to me. He was a smart man… compared to me. He was a man… compared to me. To me, he was the evil that turned off every emotion I ever had, every feeling, the devil who endangered my very sanity and killed the childhood part of my life. He rampaged on my teenage years, that time of life when relationships develop, some in the most intimate of ways, where bits and pieces of yourself are defined by the company you keep, the friends that you make. The years when life is sweet and carefree… not just painful day-to-day hell. My father did that. My daddy.
He wasn’t my real daddy, though. He was only my stepfather but what’s the difference… especially if you don’t know who your real daddy is anyway.
I fucking hate him. Yeah. That fits better.
I remember the first time he hit me. He tried to punch me with a manpunch, a hard man-punch, straight to my face. I was way too small to take that blow and I could see that shit comin’. I ducked away enough, but not all the way enough, and his knuckle caught me right in the eye. Shit! That shit hurt! My eye was all swollen and shit.
Maaannnn! I can’t wait till I get big!
I had gone back to turning circles on the sidewalk, losing myself in the endless ‘O’s when I heard his voice again. “Woman! I will fuck you up!”
“WHY?!” my mother screamed.
“Stupid shit! You better—”
“So, why then?! Why you hit me?!”
“’Cause, Woman…”
For a long second, there was silence, and then the unmistakable sound of a hard, solid fist hitting soft, pliable flesh. Plappp! I paused to look up for an instant—knowing my black-ass stepfather was beatin’ on my mother again. But I messed up when I took my eyes off the sidewalk. The bike swerved and I veered off the curb. To this day, I still don’t know how it all happened. Next thing I know, I’m rolling down Front Street, down the steepest hill I had ever seen in my life. I didn’t panic; not in my recollection. I really don’t remember panicking. I remember looking down toward the bottom of that hill and seeing the houses come rushing by me. I remember seeing there weren’t any cars in my lane, but I do recall a few cars coming toward me in the opposite lane. The
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